


let me feel your devotion, let me feel your emotion

by venomedveins



Series: of magic & monsters extra content [4]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Battling, Blood, Healing, Kid Fic, M/M, Magic, Mpreg, Multi, PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 02:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17479724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomedveins/pseuds/venomedveins
Summary: The Alptra are back in the Summer Lands to celebrate the Wolf Moon. Nasir struggles to handle the repercussions of his time there with Gerulf and the looming new threat.





	let me feel your devotion, let me feel your emotion

**Author's Note:**

> Bet you thought you saw the last of me!
> 
> I am back with a fic that was SUPPOSED to be 10,000 words max. Well, it's not. Oh well. 
> 
> As always, thanks to habibinasir for putting up with my bullshit. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Moon lingers just above the tree line, a sliver of nail half hidden by heavy clouds. A hint of a chill is in the air, summer already threatening to leave on the cusp of a changing moon and leaves. Only the buzzing of insects outside and the crackling fires disturb the piece, the encampment of Alptra safe in their tents. 

Inside the close canopy of their bed, Agron and Nasir lay sprawled on their backs, Nasir's head resting on Agron's bicep. The council had kept them late, discussing and mostly fighting over a struggle between two noble families in the west. Spartacus seemed confident they could handle it and yet conversation had dragged and dragged. They had finally managed to adjourn for the day, the kings barely having the strength to kiss their sons goodnight before they collapsed among furs and soft blankets.

"Go to sleep, my love." Agron murmurs, barely moving his lips, eyes closed. 

"I can't." Nasir turns his head slightly, just enough that he can study Agron's profile. He's let his stubble grow out, a short beard spread over his jaw. Nasir loves it, stroking his fingers over the soft strands sometimes when they're close and alone. "I'm exhausted but I can't relax. Help me."

"I don't think I could lift my head off this pillow, let alone my dick right now." Agron teases, flexing his arm under Nasir. It earns him a giggle and Nasir swatting at his bare chest. 

"I don't want sex. That's not the only way I can relax."

"Not want sex? Are you sure? Since when? Who are you?” Agron raises a brow, having to crane his neck to see his husband. In retaliation, Nasir pushes his fingers into Agron’s cheek, turning his face with a grin. Agron allows it, nipping at Nasir’s fingertips when they get too close to his mouth. 

“Alright, alright. What do you want then?"

"I don't know. Tell me a story or something." Pushing his arm out, Nasir links his fingers with Agron's, pulling his wrist up to bite slightly at Agron's knuckles.

"A story, huh? You sound like our son." Agron grumbles good naturedly, turning his head fully to look at his husband. "I heard an interesting new rumor today at court."

"Now what? I imagine it’s the same as always. I’m not good enough. Some witch that has enslaved you with my magic. You’re leaving me for someone." 

Nasir rolls his eyes. It had only taken Nasir a few months to realize what being a newly appointed consort would mean at court. The gossip started small and quiet, but like all rumors, it has grown. Whispers behind hands and shrill laughter, enough eyes always following the royal couple and quickly after their children. Nasir is sure he's heard them all by now, even if they follow the same theme.

“Actually, this is kind of new. They’re saying Kieran is too fair to be your son.” Agron raises his eyebrows in mock horror. “The story is that we stole him from a fairy on the way back from Galena.”

"For fuck's sake. I guess I should be impressed by the creativity." Taking a deep breath, Nasir closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Yes, because the time I carried him inside me was also faked?"

"So they say." Agron turns slightly onto his side, his free hand trailing slowly over Nasir's waist. "If it makes you feel better, I distinctly remember what you looked like pregnant. With Malik. With Sepp. With Kieran."

“And how you smelt.” He nuzzles into Nasir’s throat, inhaling slowly and trailing his tongue in a small circle. “And how you tasted, especially in the beginning. So sweet. Like buttercream and jasmine.”

"Stop. Stop." Nasir wiggles, catching Agron's wrist against his hip. He knows if he lets Agron continue they're never going to sleep. “You just said you couldn’t get your cock up.”

“I am sure I could make an exception.” Agron kisses Nasir’s jaw wetly. “Here, just swing over and get on top of me.”

“Did you forget we were just in a meeting for nearly half the day? I can barely feel my legs, let alone use them.” Nasir pulls away, collapsing back on the pillows instead. He’s taken his hair down, jewelry in a pile half tangled with his crown on the floor. There is still a smudge of gold glitter upon his eyes though, making his gaze seem warm and honeyed. 

"You know," Agron grins, dimples on display. He cherishes these moments, when it’s just the two of them, left to themselves and quiet banter. "There is always the idea that all of our children are Spartacus'." 

"Oh yes. I forgot." Nasir rolls his eyes. "My elicit, five year long affair with your best friend that would only make sense if Spartacus was able to travel from war back here and then return all in one night. It must have slipped my mind. How could I forget such passion?"

"That was the rumor for a while, you know. Some in court swear it's true. Very worrying." Agron teases easily, rolling so he presses tight to Nasir's side, warm and indulgent. "Poor King Agron. Betrayed this way. Bewitched by such a powerful sorcerer."

"Oh yes." Nasir sighs dramatically, his bare shoulder brushing over Agron's chest as he begins to stroke over his skin. "What can I do though? No man has ever touched me this way. I just can't turn away from him. His hands all over me. His mouth doing amazing things."

"Stop. Shush." Agron pushes his body into Nasir's, palm sliding up to Nasir's jaw to hold him still. "Stop talking."

"How can I? Making love on the throne room floor, the cold stone under him as I sat on top, impaled by his huge-" Nasir's melodramatic half moans getting smothered by Agron's large palm over his mouth. 

"No. No more." Agron cuts him off, slipping one leg over Nasir and pinning him easily to the bed. "It's bad enough having to hear the whispers from Lady Aurelias. It’s going to take me forever to scrub that image from my mind."

Nasir's voice comes out muffled behind Agron's fingers, raising his eyebrow. He still has an arm free between them and he uses it to reach up and brush his fingertips through Agron's beard. It's startlingly gentle compared to the antagonizing from just moments ago. Nasir’s thumb brushes over the smooth cupid’s bow of Agron’s lips, down along his jaw, loving and careful.

_"You know such rumors are ridiculous, my king. As if it could ever be anyone but you."_ Nasir murmurs softly in Agron's mind. His eyes are so warm, so sincere, that Agron feels suddenly off kilter. A tightening feeling twists in his chest, the sensation only growing when Nasir's smile stretches against his palm.

It's been a while since they were all alone, between their royal duties and the constant needs of their sons, Agron and Nasir have had only a few shared moments alone in the past few months. It's easy to get swept up in the blissful silence, the cocoon of their bed, the soft fur on bare skin.

_Our sons are sleeping and it is a long time before they will require us at court._ Agron lets his eyes linger on the sharp cut of Nasir’s collarbones to the smooth chest underneath, half hidden by the blankets and Agron’s own body. 

_I will be quiet._ Nasir presses his lips to Agron’s fingers, kissing him gently. _Or you could make me be._

Carefully, Agron settles further over Nasir, thigh pressing tight between Nasir's own, letting gravity press them together. He lowers onto his elbow, fingers slipping from Nasir's lips and replacing them with his own mouth. It's a slow kiss, lazy and open as Nasir reclines deeper into the pillows, arms wrapping around Agron's shoulders.

Nasir draws in a slow breath as Agron moves over him, pinning him down and holding him tight. It’s something he craves, the security of Agron’s bulk against him, the freedom to let go and just be. He can feel Agron's clever fingers in his hair, tilting his head as stubble trails over Nasir's cheek and down onto his neck. He feels exhausted, bone weary and loose, half swimming in pleasured haze as Agron bites a trail up his throat. 

"Fuck. Agron," Nasir gasps, cock hard and aching. He tries to grind up, to lift his hips and silently beg for friction, but he can't. Agron is just too far to the left for it to be good, Nasir's head leaking against the lining of his own pants and nothing else. 

It's startling then when Agron's fingertips slip under his pants, undoing cord and pulling the soft fabric down Nasir's smooth thighs. He's quick to spread Nasir's legs, his own pants seeming to disappear as they resettle. It's perfection, Agron's long cock dragging along the cut of Nasir's hip, down to nestle against Nasir's own. They're both leaking, grinding against each other in a way that has Nasir's eyes rolling back in his head. 

Agron's eyes feel heavy, body weighted with exhaustion, but he still manages to remember the oil on the side of the bed. He dips his fingers in, smearing it messily along his cock and then onto Nasir's own, following the droplets back and between. Sliding a finger into him, Nasir gasps loudly, head thrown back and hands in his hair. 

"Agron, oh god, fuck!" Nasir tries to muffle himself, very aware that there are little ears just down the hall from them. It's hard to concentrate with two of Agron's fingers inside of him and his cock dragging teasingly along Nasir's balls though, tip hitting his perineum over and over. 

"I will never understand how you stay so tight." Agron growls, rutting roughly against Nasir, his mouth hot and wet along Nasir's jaw. "You're so beautiful. So perfect for me. I wish I could keep you just like this. Would you let me keep you like this?"

"Only for you." Nasir gasps, thighs trembling around Agron. He feels half crazed from it, the pleasure sudden and sublime. "I would stay forever in this bed if I could, under you, _for you_.”

"Fuck the gods." Agron shakes his head, coming up to meet Nasir's gaze. His eyes are glowing, hair a mess from Nasir's eager fingers. "A consort unlike any other. Cherished. Worshipped. With mouth and tongue and hands and cock until you were wet and fulfilled in every way."

Nasir hides his groan by kissing Agron hard. It's so much all the sudden. He knows they must rush. Inevitably one of the boys will wake up or someone will need them and Nasir craves it just as much as Agron. He's preoccupied by Agron's tongue tracing the roof of his mouth, that's why he doesn't realize it until it's too late. Agron has just slipped the tip of his cock in, the stretch sharp and tingling up Nasir's spine, a tease of what's to come, when his senses snap back. 

"Wait!" Nasir's fingers dig into Agron's shoulders, pushing him back enough to meet his gaze, panting hard. "Fuck, wait."

"What's wrong?" Agron gasps, holding himself as still as possible. He doesn't fully pull back, unsure. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, just. Fuck, not inside." Nasir squirms as Agron twitches inside of him. He presses the heel of his hands into his eyes. "I'm sorry. I’m so fucking sorry."

"Fuck!” Agron drops his head. He had forgotten entirely, too caught up in the moment and his obsession with loving Nasir that he had blanked on their previous agreement. 

It was a joint decision really, talked about late into the night as Nasir lay propped up among pillows, chest sore and body weary. Agron had only been able to sooth with soft hands on Nasir's back, rubbing ointment on his joints as Nasir tried to sleep. Kieran's birth had been easy compared to his brothers', quick and nearly painless, but the aftermath had settled late. Malik's birth had been a powerful and sudden affair, taking its own toll on Nasir. Sepp's had been the worst, sickening Nasir the entire time due to the vampire venom still in Sepp's system, and the stress of the war. Nasir had been sure he was going to die in the frenzy of it, sprawled on the dirt floor of his tent.

_Magic is raw between you, ancient,_ Kalmar had tried to explain, _and until we know the logistics, you must take basic precautions._

Agron hadn't minded, had only wanted to protect and keep Nasir safe. If not being able to be inside of him is all Agron had to sacrifice to make Nasir happy, then he would do it. They already had three beautiful, amazing sons. If Nasir wanted, no needed, to slow down then Agron had no problem abstaining. 

It was difficult in this moment though, cock hard and twitching, barely just inside Nasir's wet heat, to pull away. Agron wants nothing more than to push forward, thrust until he hears the little gasp of air past Nasir’s lips that means he’s too full and fuller still. Agron has grown addicted to it. But he can’t. Kissing Nasir's temple, Agron draws back, flinching at Nasir's whine at the loss. 

"I'm sorry. I know this is horrible-" Nasir begins to rambles, caressing his hands over Agron's chest and stomach. He knows it's difficult, body already protesting as the rush slows in Nasir's veins. He doesn't want to ruin this, but he knows they shouldn't, regardless of what they want.

"Shh. No, it's okay." Agron kisses him again, slow and gentle. "It's not your fault. We both know why."

"I want you. You know I do." Nasir whispers, nuzzling his nose against Agron's. "I always do."

Pressing his elbows to the bed, Agron pins Nasir down to the furs, grinding against him slowly. He doesn't want Nasir upset, especially in the brief moment they got alone. He slots them together carefully, cocks nudging and sliding against one another. Nasir's apologies get cut off quickly by a moan, hands falling to Agron's huge shoulders and then down to his lower back and then further, grabbing his ass. 

Nasir hikes his legs up, squeezes Agron’s ribs between his thighs and hitches his hips, guides Agron’s cock to nestle against him. Agron’s tip drags tantalizing over Nasir’s hole with each thrust, one smooth line along his balls and taint and then back. It’s delicious and teasing and Nasir’s cock bumps against the smooth plane of Agron’s stomach, held tight together. 

Agron doesn’t slow, doesn’t think he can, rutting wet and hard against Nasir. In the tent, in the summer lands, their bed sits low to the ground on a frame of wood. There is no creaking to give them away, no metal frame to protest. It’s just the slick hitting of skin, of Nasir’s moans being caught in Agron’s mouth, cocks leaking a mess between them. It’s a frenzy then, of heat and desire. 

“You could pull out.” Nasir suddenly gasps, nails digging into Agron’s ass as he thrusts sharply. “You could. Fuck me and then come on me.”

“I can’t.” Agron turns his head, smears a wet kiss over Nasir’s jaw and onto his throat. He wiggles a hand between them, strokes tight and fast over Nasir’s leaking cock. “You know I can’t.”

“You could. Or just half. Only half.” Nasir whines high and needy. He’s too lost in the burning heat at his spine, pulse pounding in his ears. He knows they’re being too loud but he wants it. He wants it so bad. 

“You said that before.” Agron raises an eyebrow, pulling back enough to watch his husband. He can tell Nasir is close by his half-muffled moans, the tone raising to high and frantic. “You never just want half my cock and you know it.”

“I could. I could be good for you. Please.” Nasir moves his hands, one twisting in his own hair and the other on Agron’s stomach. 

“Be good and come for me.” Agron instructs, ignoring Nasir’s starting protest to take his nipple into his mouth. 

It’s an instant effect, Nasir nearly raising off the mattress as he begins to come, head tossed back in pleasure. Agron has the forethought to wrench his hand off the mattress and cover Nasir’s mouth, pumping his cock as Nasir spills all over himself in strips of creamy white. His legs involuntarily tighten, nudging Agron right into the soft folds of Nasir’s ass, a vice that plummets Agron over the side. 

He comes all over Nasir’s hole, panting it and over his balls, dripping onto his thighs. Agron makes sure Nasir is done shouting before he moves down, mouth and tongue set on cleaning his own mess up. Nasir is still floating at this point, a mess of ragged breath and quiet moans. He lets Agron have him, loose limbed and compliant as Agron licks over him and then slowly inside. 

“Ah!” Nasir gasps after a while, hands petting through Agron’s soft hair. “Please. Kiss me.”

Agron can never deny such a sweet request and moves up, lapping over Nasir’s own cooling stomach to his mouth. He can taste both of them on his tongue, languidly sharing it with his husband. Nasir continues to stroke through Agron’s hair, desperation turned gentle as he holds him, doesn’t want Agron to move far away from him. 

“I love you.” Agron whispers, breaking the kiss only to pet the sweaty strands of hair from Nasir’s face. 

“I love you too.” 

Nasir grins up at Agron, soft and natural. Sometimes it still is astonishing to him that they’ve come so far. That marriage and love are easy concepts for them now. That even in castles and marble rooms or the canvas and dirt floor of their tent, that there is no one they want beside them except for each other. 

“Five years later and you are still the most beautiful man I have ever seen.” Agron runs a slow finger down Nasir’s jaw. 

“You still flatter too much for your own good.” Nasir cannot help the grin that spreads across his face. 

“How can it be for my own good? You are beautiful and perfect and amazing.” Agron punctuates each compliment with a kiss, pulling back to match Nasir’s grin. “And still beg for my cock like it was the first night.”

Nasir rolls his eyes at that, wiggling out from under Agron and then to the side of the bed. He finds the amphora of water, taking a long pull from it and then standing on trembling legs. Wandering to the side table, he finds a rag there, wetting it and tossing to Agron behind.

“You forget, my love. I only like you for that giant cock.”

“I know. Lucky for you that I know how to use it.” 

Agron stretches back on the pillows, letting the night air cool down his sticky skin. He’s never had to feel shy about his nudity around Nasir, even as he watches his husband’s carefully assessing gaze. It’s unabashedly warm, trailing over toned muscles and inked skin, carefully lingering on the softening parts of him. 

“You-“ Nasir starts, flushing as Agron shifts slightly, enough his cock twitches. “Stop it.”

“You had a response, my love?” Agron raises a slow eyebrow, cocky and sure. “What was it?” 

“I-“ Nasir turns sharply, a hint of a smile being hidden behind long hair. “I’m going back to bed.”

Agron watches Nasir snatch his pants from the corner where Agron tossed them, shaking them out to remove the invisible dirt. He wants to say something else, getting distracted by the curve of Nasir’s thigh into his ass, when the silence is interrupted by a shrill cry. 

They pause, waiting to see if it will continue, when the sobs turn frantic and needy. 

“It’s Malik.” Nasir turns sharply, glancing at the doorway to the hall and then to Agron. “I’ll go.”

“No.” Agron is already half off the bed, reaching for his own pants. “I’ve got it. Get back in bed.”

“But-“ Nasir is already protesting when Agron grips the side of his neck, brushing a kiss over his forehead. 

“We agreed, remember? I’ll get it if it’s Malik or Sepp. You get it if it’s Kieran.” Agron gently pushes Nasir towards the furs. “Now go.”

“We only agreed because Kieran only cries when he’s hungry.” Nasir mutters but is already smoothing the blankets out, crawling on top. 

“So it makes sense for you to go.” Agron throws over his shoulder, already heading down the dark hall. 

The rooms branch off in a half circle from the entrance, three doorways separated by a thin strip of canvas and hide. There is no fire down here, Nasir already enchanting the rooms to stay warm and safe, so the only give away that one of the boys is up comes in the pair of green glowing eyes barely peeking over the edge of his bed. 

They had moved Malik from a crib to a pallet on the floor when he turned two, the adjustment difficult for him and he often wakes up wanting someone to hold him and coax him back. He’s on the cusp of turning five now, still prone to needing help to relax. Agron has spent many a night holding Malik to his chest or laying beside him, rubbing his back until the little boy finally succumbs.

“Hey little man.” Agron coos in slow Alptra, stepping silently into the room. He can see that Malik is half out of his bed, a mess of blankets around him. “What’s wrong?”

“Daddy.” Helplessly, Malik raises his arms above his head, little face red and blotchy from tears. “Daddy!”

Agron easily stoops, hooking his hands just under Malik’s armpits and lifting. The boy goes willingly, nuzzling sharply into Agron’s bare shoulder, little wolf claws scrambling on his back. His cries are half muffled but still frantic, a mess of curls pressed tightly to Agron’s throat. 

“It’s okay. Shhh. Daddy’s got you.” Agron pets small circles into Malik’s nightshirt, dragging the fabric over his spine. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Malik nods silently, helplessly pressing his face back and forth over Agron’s skin, spreading snot and tears. Agron doesn’t mind, half bouncing half swaying as he begins to gently growl. It’s not an aggressive noise, more akin to a deep purr that helps sooth Malik into gentle sniffles and then quiet sighs. Malik is the only one to fully transform now, Sepp only managing half and Kieran not at all. Agron has no doubt they will be wolves though, just from the way the three of them interact with one another.

“A bad man was going to get us.” Malik finally whispers, his sticky fingers pressing to Agron’s cheek as he leans back. “I saw him. He was big and had a big sword and he was so loud. He wanted to hurt us. To hurt Baba. To hurt me.”

“No one is going to hurt you, baby. I promise you.” Agron presses a slow kiss to Malik’s forehead. “Not you or your Baba. I won’t let it.”

“Or Seppy or Kee?” Malik mumbles, fist rubbing at his eye. He looks uncertain, eyes still half lit and wide. Agron can feel the brush of soft ears against his jaw when Malik leans forward again, hugging Agron tightly, a line of fur down his back. “I don’t want to lose my brothers.”

“Or Sepp or Kieran.” Agron nods meaningfully, hand still stroking over Malik’s spine. “Your Daddy is going to keep you all safe. No matter what. No bad man is going to get you.”

“He was so loud.” Malik whispers faintly, sniffling. “So loud.”

“What was he saying?” 

Nasir has, for a very long time, had the fear that Malik has some magic in him as well. It’s a hunch really, an idea brewed from the power that simmers just below the surface. Malik sometimes has an uncanny ability to predict things directly before they happen, and though Agron likes to blame coincidence, Nasir won’t. 

“I don’t know.” Malik turns his head, nuzzling back into Agron’s neck. The next words are nearly lost, half muffled by skin and Malik’s tired yawn. “Baba was screaming so I couldn’t hear.”

“Malik,” Agron hugs his whole arm around his son, cradling him as if he was a small babe again. “No one is going to hurt you or anyone in this family. It was just a bad dream. But your daddy isn’t going to let anything happen to you. I promise.” 

Malik seems to believe him, the claws that held tightly to Agron’s shoulder slowly lessening as Malik falls back asleep. Agron continues to hold him for a while, makes sure he is really out, before laying him down among the blankets, covering him with an embroidered one of moons and stars. He knows it’s Nasir’s handywork, the stitches intertwined with magic for rest and safety, prickling warm against Agron’s fingertips. 

He checks on Sepp and Kieran before he goes back up the hall, both boys sleeping soundly. Apep still slumbers just inside Kieran’s cot, his eyes a flash of silver in the night when Agron glances over him. It has only been recently that Malik has woken to nightmares, a habit that both Agron and Nasir agree stems from the move and Malik’s recent growth spurt. He’s tall now and lean, eager to run and jump after his fathers and uncles. 

Nasir is asleep on his stomach when Agron gets back to the main room, hair a mess of tangles over his face and the pillow. Dark bruises are blossoming on the curve of his waist, fingerprint trails that Agron is sure would match up to his own hand if he tried. A warm rush of affection burns through Agron’s chest, noticing that Nasir has one hand curled in Agron’s pillow, an anchor in the middle of their huge marriage bed. 

He gently pries it from him, brushes his hair back from his cheek as Agron slides into the pile of blankets. The motion must wake him, but not all the way, Nasir groaning in protest and shuffling towards his husband until he can press his face into Agron’s chest – a near identical action as his son’s from just moments ago. It’s uncanny how he drags his nose across Agron’s skin, inhaling deeply, scenting in a way that is half wolf and half human.

“Is Malik okay?” Nasir mumbles, mouth barely moving around the words. 

“Just a nightmare.” Agron threads his fingers in Nasir’s hair, massages his scalp. “Something about a bad man and you screaming.”

Agron feels Nasir’s eyes pop open, the soft brush of eyelashes on his skin as Nasir jolts conscious. Regret floods through Agron, sick and warm. It was a poor choice in words but Agron is tired, exhausted from a day of kingly duties and being the father of two toddlers and a baby. Nasir pushes up on his elbow, half leaning over Agron to catch his gaze, dark and still sleepy. Agron already knows what he’s about to say, hand not moving from his hair. 

“It’s not him. Nasir, no, stop.” Agron cuts him off, shaking his head. “He has no knowledge of him. It was just a bad dream.”

“The anniversary of his murder is in a few days’ time. Malik is of me, of us. So much happened when you were gone and I was pregnant. What if it’s a poison, like with Sepp. I’ve ruined our children.” 

Nasir hisses, gaze skirting away from Agron and towards the center of the tent. It glosses over him, like a wool suddenly pulled from the dark, the haunted haze to his eyes, the color draining from his face. It does not matter how much time will pass, the trauma of those few months lingers like a festering wound. Agron cannot stand it, cannot bear the horror that sudden invades their safe space.

“ _Schatz_ ” Agron’s fingers grip Nasir’s jaw, force him to look away from the phantom scenes he is sure are playing before Nasir’s eyes. “Stop. Our children are safe. We are safe. Malik has just moved from Galena to Maerif to here. I am sure it’s the product of those transitions.” 

“We don’t know what his power holds.” Nasir shakes his head, the tension bleeding into his brow. “The prophecy said he would be more powerful than the world had ever known. We don’t know what that means.”

“We don’t care.” Agron reminds him firmly. This is a conversation they have had many times. “He’s five years old, my love. He can barely tie his boots on his own, let alone lead an army into battle or foresee the ending of the world.”

Nasir opens his mouth to protest, but Agron kisses him firmly. He doesn’t pull back until Nasir collapses down, smooth and tension sliding away – back into the dark where it will fester. He lets himself be led down, to rest against the curve of Agron’s body, to be wrapped in strong arms and warm blankets. In the safety of their bed, the fire low and smoldering just outside, it is easy to remember their enemies from long ago have been defeated. 

“I know it is a foolish fear.” Nasir whispers, lacing his fingers through Agron’s against his chest. “But how can I not? I carried him inside of me. I felt him from the moment he was created to the moment I drew him into this world. I have bathed him. Fed him. Counted every finger and toe. Kissed his face. Tried to keep him safe from the horrors of the world. And one day, I will have to let him be his own man. To grow past what I can give him.”

“You are his father.” Agron kisses Nasir’s temple. “We are his fathers. And Malik will still be our son at five as he is at fifty. We do all we can for them and then we wait for them to ask for more. But we cannot stop life from touching them, from changing them. We can only do our best and be better than the examples we were given.”

Nasir tilts his head back, gaze soft and dim in the darkness. He presses a gentle kiss to Agron’s jaw, fingers stroking in his beard before pulling back, gold scales sliding over his brow and getting lost in his hair. 

“We are good fathers.”

“We are.” Agron confirms, smiling slightly. It took a long time for him to be able to say that with confidence. “Now sleep, my love.”

“I love you.” Nasir whispers again, eyes already falling closed. 

“I love you too.”

\- - -

 

Spartacus has spent a large section of his life becoming Agron’s shadow. To be the one right behind shoulder, hand on sword, ready to defend and honor his future and now king. 

His story is not one of simplicity though. Spartacus was sent to the Alptraum court when he was a child from his tribe in the north, barely seven years old. Of noble birth, Spartacus had been the oldest to a lord that controlled a section of the Northern Land. They had always been loyal to Gerulf but sending Spartacus had been seen as a gift of good faith – another boy to join the hordes of children that competed to be within the heir’s trusted council. 

Agron had barely been past being a toddler at this point, four years old but deadly with a sword and spear. Spartacus had been hesitant to trust the little prince who had glowing green eyes and was seen very rarely without his brother. Agron had been boasted upon from the moment of his birth – an alpha born to one day rule in the fashion of his ruthless father. 

The competition to join Agron’s royal house had been fierce, even as children. Agron was stand offish, aloof, and more concerned with his ability to battle than to make friends. Somehow though, Spartacus must have stood out from the rest. Perhaps it was his willingness to compete with Agron, to knock the prince down and then teach him how to pick himself back up. Or maybe it was the way Spartacus had stood silent, strong, with arm around Agron, the first time the prince had limped back to his rooms – bruised and bleeding from a meeting with his father. Either way, loyalty was born in secrets, in friendship so deep it was closer to brotherhood than anything else. 

It took barely a year before Agron was being forced to compete in championships and tournaments. Gerulf wanted to show off his pride, his heir that could strike down monsters and yet still had to use a stool to sit upon his princely throne. Spartacus was his partner, his confident, his best friend. They very rarely parted – a pallet bed even being placed in Agron’s quarters for him. 

In the end, there were only five that passed the test and stood within Agron’s house – Spartacus, Crixus, Mira, Naevia, and Tove. There were others along the fringes, ones who tried to cling to the princely favor as much as they could, but it was the core five that Agron would not allow to be parted with. 

It is strange then, for Spartacus to be striding into the royal tent and seeing a completely new version of his king. Their house, their family, had flexed and expanded over the years. Spartacus still stood at Agron’s right side, but his left shifted to fit Nasir, followed closely by his children. A whole new dynamic was created in the forming of the royal house – a combination of both Agron’s and Nasir’s trusted allies. 

The tent is bright with morning light, the roof having been rolled back to allow the sunshine upon the dirt floor. At a low table along one side, Agron sits across from his two eldest sons, a stern look on his face as he points to their half empty plates. Both Malik and Sepp seem to have avoided the fruit entirely on them and instead are whining about the smoked meat that they had quickly demolished. Nasir lingers to the side, half stepped out from behind a curtain and stripped to the waist. Kieran is suckling at his chest. 

“Announcing his grace, Lord Spartacus, right hand of the king.” The guard booms the formal announcement, leaning only far enough into the tent to make sure he’s heard. He’s wise enough not to raise his head, probably already knowing the scene inside is too intimate to be proper. 

“Your highness.” Etiquette makes Spartacus bow to Agron first, knee to the ground so that his own dropped head is lower than Agron’s. Laeta would have been proud. “Good morning to you and to the royal house.”

“Lord Spartacus. You are here early.” Agron answers formally, swinging one leg over the bench to tap his fist to his shoulder. “And with news?”

Behind Agron, his sons wave enthusiastically, cutting into the conversation as breakfast and manners are forgotten. Sepp moves to talk first, fruit juice dribbling down his chin and garbling. Agron sends him a sharp look, a single raised eyebrow that is both scathing and extremely paternal. Sepp cows under it, Malik remembering to swallow before grinning. 

“Uncle, what have you brought today?”

He’s indicating to the scroll clutched in Spartacus’ right hand, the paper bound with a red string. It’s an official report for Agron – more intel of issues on the western border. It’s not good news. 

“Something for your father.” Spartacus replies carefully, rolling the scroll over so Agron can see the three black lines that have been carved into the paper. It’s a sign from his cousin – a warning of more dire necessity. Spartacus tries to make it a habit to not deliver bad news before breakfast or before the children, but this can’t be helped. 

Agron spares him having to explain, swinging his other leg over the bench and standing. He pulls the scroll from Spartacus’ hand with little preamble, letting the ribbon fall to the floor as he unrolls the scroll. It’s not a long letter, a desperate explanation and cry for help. Saxa’s troops will need aid soon. They cannot hold off the invaders for much longer.

“We go? Daddy, you promised.” Sepp taps his fork on the table in excitement. “You said we could hunt. Are we hunting?”

“No. Daddy said **I** could hunt. You’re too little.” Malik shoves his shoulder into Sepp’s, crouching up on his knees as if he means to cross the table itself. “I am the oldest so I go.”

“I go. I go.” Sepp turns to look at his brother, fruit juice still staining his chin as he mutters. “I go.”

“No.” Malik cuts in, turning his head. “I go with Daddy. You stay here with Baba.”

“Baba goes.” Sepp mutters, stabbing his fork halfheartedly into a grape.

Spartacus looks torn, half wanting to protest and half not wanting to let his nephews down. He is saved, gracefully, by Nasir walking swiftly over to the small group, shifting Kieran to the other side in an easy and practiced move. There are dark marks on his waist, a bruise to the left of his shoulder that Spartacus tries very hard not to stare at as Nasir bends over. He uses a spoon to dish more fruit onto his sons’ plates.

“Malik and Sepp aren’t going anywhere until you finish breakfast.” Nasir points to the cups resting just to the left of their plates. “And their milk.”

“Baba!” Malik whines, tilting his head back. “I don’t want fruit.”

“Do you want to grow big and strong like your daddy?” Nasir raises an eyebrow, pointing to where Agron is still pouring over the scroll, scowling. 

“Yes! And Uncle Duro! And Uncle Spartacus!” Malik shouts excitedly, wiggling. 

“Then you need to eat your fruit.” Spartacus interjects, making a point of reaching forward and take a small nestle of grapes. He pulls one from the vine and pops it into his mouth, winking. The effect is instantaneous as the princes are quick to start shoveling food into their mouths. 

“Good morning. Are you hungry? You look like you haven’t slept.” Nasir seems unabashed in half nudity, leaning up on his toes to kiss both of Spartacus’ cheeks, Kieran between them. No matter how many times Spartacus has seen Nasir this way, and even more _intimate_ it never ceases to cause a flush to come to his face. 

“No _königlicher Ehemann_ , thank you.” Spartacus ducks his head into a bow, taking Nasir’s free hand and kissing the wedding ring that is wrapped around his finger – a sign of respect. Kieran pulls back with a wet slurp to coo softly, nestling close once again.

“So formal this morning. I suspect you are here to steal my husband for a day of yelling and arguing in court then?” Nasir asks, raising a knowing eyebrow. He doesn’t need his powers to be able to read his friend, slipping back to stand beside Agron and peer over at the paper. Almost unconsciously, Agron loops his arm around Nasir’s waist, leaning into him. 

“I am sorry to say it is so.” Spartacus nods. Something warm and sickening curls in his stomach as he looks over the little family. He hates being the one to break them apart, hates being the reason that they have to scatter. It is the role of hand of the king though. 

“It can’t be helped.” Nasir shrugs, shifting to stroke gentle fingers through Agron’s hair. They seem to be talking silently, eyes twitching over faces but lips still. A strand of gold slides from Nasir’s upturned wrist, a ghost over Agron’s neck and disappearing into his tunic. Behind him, Malik and Sepp sit quietly, watching their parents with unblinking eyes, sensitive to the shifting in magic. 

“Are you sure?” Agron suddenly asks out loud, standing up.

“Unless you want to finish nursing him.” Nasir answers, half the conversation being lost in the silence from before. “Pietros will take them soon and I will join you. Kieran’s just being slow and finicky.” 

“No, you should come with. I fear we may be in court all day again.” Agron shakes his head, disappearing behind a curtain and reappearing with a bottle and a sword belt. “Finish getting dressed. We’ll drop them along the way. Melitta won’t mind.”

“Fine. Spartacus?” Nasir motions towards the babe in his arms. “Can you finish him? He’ll take the bottle if I’m not holding him.”

“Oh. Um. No. Of course not.” Spartacus shrugs a shoulder, slipping the scroll back into his belt. It is a shift from being the hand of the king, a royal council member, to slipping into the role of uncle. 

Nasir grimaces, a gentle hand slipping up Kieran’s front to caress over the boy’s chest and stomach, coaxing him to relax. After a moment, Kieran slowly releases, blinking dark eyes up at his father with a wet and gasping mouth. He begins to instantly fuss when he realizes he’s not nursing anymore, letting out a warbling cry and arching his back. Nasir smiles at him, kissing his forehead gently as he soothes, pushing him into Spartacus’ waiting arms. Kieran instantly brightens when he sees his uncle, fondness pulling his mouth into a gummy smile around the nipple of the bottle..

“Hey little prince. How are you?” 

Spartacus tries very hard to focus on the babe in his arms and not the way Nasir’s chest is swollen and red, a droplet of milk easing down his side. Spartacus will never understand how he is privy to these private moments, intimate and sacred, when Agron would slice the head from anyone else’s body who dare to suggest it. 

“I’ll be right back. Just see if he will take the bottle. You’re his favorite.” 

Nasir throws over his shoulder, disappearing behind the curtain by their bed. Agron appears from behind it a moment later, two crowns in his hand and a flush to his face. He meets Spartacus’ eye with a little grin, dimples on full display, looking devastatingly boyish and not the regal king he just was a moment ago, clutching news of war. Spartacus doesn’t need to know the details of what he missed in the moment that the royals passed one another. He’s sure whatever it was is not meant for his eyes or anyone else’s. 

It’s not as if he can escape it though. Spartacus is honored Agron trusts him so much, that he is like a brother to the king. Still, it is not without noticing that Spartacus has seen the royal pair in ways that most at court would gawk and scramble to. Spartacus has heard the rumors of infidelity, of crazed magic, of frantic nights spent too close to darkness. And yet, Spartacus seems to be the only one with first hand experience. He has seen Agron and Nasir collide, has seen their love turn palpable, air thick with magic and static. Spartacus will never be able to erase the scent of them that night in the tent when Spartacus had to deliver Gerulf’s death, nor the sound of Nasir’s pleasure when he had sank onto Agron’s waiting hand. 

“Alright boys.” 

Agron tosses the crowns carelessly onto the table, the sound forcing Spartacus from his musing, and instead focusing on getting the two other princes’ down from the bench, helping them into shoes. Malik is protesting high and loud in Pythonissan the whole time, eyes shifting into molten green the longer it takes Agron to get Sepp ready. He continues to nag, little hands shoving into Agron’s shoulder and stomping his heels into the soft ground when Agron replies sharp. Spartacus has never learned the language, but he knows Malik is chastised and furious.

“I am almost five. I am a big boy. I can hunt!” Malik suddenly shouts in loud Alptraum, fangs elongating. “I can!”

“Habibi.” 

Nasir admonishes from the steps by his bed, tying up the front of his cream and sheer tunic, silver stars embroidered up the front. He looks regal once more, dressed and poised with a royal cloak of white fur clasped at each shoulder. Spartacus feels his face heat, ashamed of his previous musings. Nasir is his king, just as much as Agron is. 

“What is wrong now?” 

Malik says something rapid and high in Pythonissan, little fists clenched at his sides and eyes watering. It’s the beginning of a tantrum and as Spartacus watches, Sepp seems to be tempted to follow his brother, twisting his fists in his own small tunic. It’s quickly dispelled though as Agron draws in a slow breath, dropping to his knees. He grips Malik’s and then Sepp’s shoulder in each of his hands, leaning in to catch both of their eyes. 

“We are not going hunting today. Your baba and I are going to court to do very boring things. But-“ Agron holds up a finger when Malik goes to protest. “But! When we are done, I promise that Uncle Duro and I will take both of you out to hunt, okay?” 

“Okay Daddy.” Sepp easily agrees, but Malik stays unsure, reaching out a tiny hand, his smallest finger extended. 

“You swear?” 

Agron nods surely, hooking his own pinky through his son’s. 

“I swear.” 

 

\- - - 

 

"But is it a problem for us right now?" Donar interrupts again, tapping the bottom of his goblet over and over on the arm of his chair. "There is no point in sending troops Saxa doesn't need."

"She is holding the line as best as she can, but they are bringing reinforcements from sea." Tove bites back, eyes gleaming. "I know my sister. She wouldn't have asked for help unless she needed fucking help."

"We must look at the bigger picture, your highness." Donar spits the words sharply. 

"If they take the north, they will move south. How many towns and villages do they have to burn before you give a fuck?" Duro cuts in, leaning forward in his chair, pointing an accusing finger at Donar. 

Murmurs rustle though the court, the rows of benches along the edges of the tent shifting as royals and nobility to gossip. The tension in the room has been mounting all morning, conversation turned to shouting, etiquette to bold claims.

Agron tries very hard to pay attention, eyes tracking between Donar's red face and Tove's glowing eyes. It reminds him vaguely of his sons, fighting and picking at one another, toddler antics. They are both making good, valid points, but Agron has already made his decision. He will send aid to his cousin in the north. Tove is correct in her need. 

There are others in court that would have his attention. Agron can sense the restless shifting, eyes constantly trained to the king. The royal court is not just full of Alptra nobility. There are dignitaries from surrounding kingdoms, representatives of high kings and queens. They follow the goings on of the Alptra court and report back to their masters – constantly trying to gain or remove favor. It is a giant game and one Agron has known about his entire life. Still, it can be weary to be the constant focus – observed and calculated in his every move. 

Rolling his head along the back of the throne, Agron watches Nasir out of the corner of his eye. He likes to look sometimes, to memorize the smooth line of Nasir’s jaw, the dark smudge of his eyelashes, the tiny scar by his eyebrow he received in practice. It’s grounding for him, to remember that no matter what, someone is always beside him – his calm in the storm. Nasir has been quiet all morning though, staring distantly at a spot on the floor, fingers fiddling with a random necklace. He spins the bead back and forth on his thumb, chain twisting and curling around his wrist. 

_"Where are you?"_ Agron whispers, reaching over between the chairs to gently loop his finger around the end of one of Nasir's curls. It instantly draws the attention of a few nobles, their eyes tracking their king.

_"Sorry, I am here."_ Nasir blinks back into reality, the shimmer of a smile barely pulling at his lips. He is subtle as he lifts his head, appearing as if he never left the conversation. "Do you remember that villa by the sea we went to?"

_"The one after the war? Of course."_ Agron tries to suppress a grin. 

They had taken some time away following the events of the war, much needed time to heal and relax. The house was large, a secluded estate of white stone and lush gardens surrounding the front and a secret path leading to a secluded beach front in the back. The kings had retreated with only the closest of their house and a few dozen guards, somewhere safe to reunite with their son. 

It had been a few months of euphoria away from the pressures of court and the trauma. They spent their days swimming and basking in the summer sun and their nights talking and drinking late into the darkness within the garden walls. Malik took his first steps in the villa. It was an oasis after so long of being so stressed. 

_"I remember how quiet it was there."_ Nasir muses softly. _"Even with the crickets singing in the grass, I could hear everything. Every time someone turned over in bed or footsteps in the hall."_

_"Remember the lady from the village who would come and bring you baskets just so she could see you? She brought you that bottle of oil for your stomach."_ Agron remembers the heavily laden baskets of fresh peaches, bottles of cream and honey, rolls of fluffy white bread. She had begged to even catch a glimpse of Nasir and had cried for a full hour when Nasir had sat with her in the garden. She had remembered the Pythonissan traveling through her town as a child, had remembered them healing her mother. 

_"Yes."_ Nasir murmurs, smiling slightly. _"I also remember spending all day in that village and the people there shocked by us walking through their market like we were tourists, not kings."_

_"It was bliss. I don't think any of us got completely dressed the whole time."_ Agron has to suppress a grin behind a cough. _"Especially you."_

_"I tried. You kept cornering me."_ Nasir shifts in his throne, crossing his legs. In front of them, the argument continues, growing volume. _"Though, I must say, you do look very good covered in sand."_

_"Gods, that time on the beach."_ Agron starts, only to be interrupted by Nasir's voice, dipping lower. 

_"Which time?"_

_"Every time."_ Agron makes a nod towards the argument in front of him, trying to appear as if his attention is not drawn away. _"I think I was inside of you in every room of that house."_

_"And on the beach and in the water and in that gazebo on the far left of the gardens. The one with all the vines."_ Nasir adds, reaching over to gently brush his fingers over Agron's wrist, moving down to hold his hand. 

_"It didn't have vines when we started."_ Agron teases, coughing again to hide his smirk. _"Neither did the whole east wing of the house."_

_"It's not my fault. You were insatiable. How could I say no? It was our honeymoon."_ Nasir lowers his head. _”Though the time in the kitchen was pretty memorable. I don’t think I have ever had bruises like that.”_

_”Gods!”_ It takes all of Agron’s willpower not to grin. _”Do you remember Spartacus’ face when he walked in on us? I thought he was going to die right then and there.”_

_”It can be very traumatizing to walk in on your best friend fucking his husband over a kitchen table filled with breakfast.”_ Nasir reasons, crossing his legs neatly at the knee. 

_”He just took the biscuits farthest from us and left.”_ Agron interrupts himself with a coughing fit to hide his cackling. Nasir acts concerned husband, rubbing a hand over his back before settling into his throne once more, face flushed.

_”I don’t see what the problems was. It should have been old news; we never stopped. I can’t remember anything from that trip other than picnics with Malik and your hands all over me. There was no way they didn’t hear us.”_

Nasir lets his mind wander for a moment, recalling the memory of their bedroom there. It had been simple in its elegance, a large four poster bed with a soft, billowing white canopy covered in cotton blankets. A shag rug on the floor and another by the fireplace. There was a bathroom off the side and another door leading to a small nursery for Malik. 

Vividly, Nasir remembers curling his fingers over the footboard, the carvings biting into his palms as Agron presses in behind him. The balcony doors were always open, spilling in hazy twilight, the setting sun casting them both in gold. The sweat dripping onto Nasir's arched spine, Agron's hand on his shoulder, thrusting deliciously slow and deep, the mattress springs helping with the sensual rocking. Nasir coming again and again, shivering pleasure that left his thighs sore and unable to close for days. 

"Fuck!" Agron suddenly snaps, leaning forward in his chair. Nasir can see the flush to his cheeks, a bead of sweat at his temple. He hadn't meant to share the memory with Agron, but it seems he had. 

_"Focus, my love."_ Nasir hides his own amusement with a hand over his face.

_"How can I focus when I can fucking taste you in my mouth?"_ Agron hisses, sending Nasir a look out of the corner of his eye. 

"Your highness?" Unsure, another noble - Lord Paulus pauses midsentence. He's standing in the middle of the room, pointing an accusing finger at Tove. 

The conversation having moved without either king noticing. Agron has no idea where they are now, only hinted by Spartacus' stony eyed stare and Crixus' scowl. Whatever it is, they aren't pleased.

"I am tired of hearing this fucking argument!" Agron hides his lust easily under wrath, sitting up abruptly with gleaming eyes and a flush. "I am offering aid to Lady Saxa. The north is still part of this kingdom and we defend the Alptraum people. Your prattling does nothing to dissuade that. Commander Crixus, see it done."

Crixus taps his fist to his shoulder, bowing his head. Beside him, Spartacus leans in and whispers something to him, the plans already being put into motion. Beside him, Naevia and Mira share a look and then glance over at Nasir. Mira raises an eyebrow with a smirk and Nasir has to look away, flush on his face. It seems his bodyguards already know.

"Majesty, please you must-" Lord Raulus begins, clasping his hands before him, but Agron raises his head, growling. There is a consul from Haritha behind him, twisting the edge of his cloak desperately over and over in his hand. There is something he is burning to say, something Agron remembers they are supposed to discuss, but his head is hazy with images of Nasir basking in the orange glow of sunset.

"Court dismissed." Agron snarls, standing abruptly. "When we reconvene, I don't want to see your face."

He doesn't wait to see the reaction, doesn't care and doesn't have to. He's the king. And he uses his title to his advantage as he reaches out his arm. Nasir is graceful as he stands, slipping his hand over Agron’s bicep and down onto his forearm. The horns trumpet loudly as Agron nearly drags Nasir from the platform, ignoring the court that falls to their knees as they pass. There is a room down a short hall from the main one, the canvas held high with long poles on either side, sunlight spilling from oculuses in the ceiling.

The room is simple in design, a few chairs scattered around, a doorway for servant to serve from on the far wall. The canopy is pulled back in the center so sunlight and the warm breeze billows in. Looping an arm around Nasir's waist, Agron doesn’t even allow Nasir pause. He lifts and turns sharply, putting Nasir on the tall table along the wall and pinning him there with his thighs.

“You can’t just banish people because they interrupted us.” Nasir laughs breathless, arms raising to wrap around Agron’s shoulders. 

“I am the king.” Agron replies, mouth hot and vicious as he presses it against Nasir’s own. He can’t keep his hands still, caressing over Nasir’s back, his waist, down over his smooth thighs. “I can do whatever I want.”

“The court will be expecting us back soon. We have-“ Nasir has to muffle his cry behind his hand as Agron grips his legs, pushing them open and slotting between. “We have duties. Others with desires and needs-”

“I have a desire and a great need.” Agron interrupts, holding Nasir’s jaw and lapping back into his mouth. “Can you guess what it is?”

“Lunch? A calm meal before we return? Casual conversation about the weather?” Nasir teases, hiding his smirk as he bites at Agron’s earlobe. The feeling of teeth against him, Nasir turning half wild and half wolf, always riles Agron up. 

“Oh, I can eat.” Agron growls, fingers denting in Nasir’s hips, tugging him across the table. “I can eat you all afternoon.”

Nasir gasps, heavy and thrumming as Agron lifts him, hands firm on his ass. He could get lost in this sensation, Agron’s chest against his own, his scent surrounding Nasir as he tries to lead him back. Teeth skim over his pulse, Agron biting there and sucking a mark there that instantly begins to ache. Nasir doesn’t need to see it to know it’s probably already blossomed a crimson purple. 

A commotion breaks the spell, the sound of shouting voices drawing down the hall. Agron doesn’t stop kissing Nasir, but he does slow, craning his head slightly to the side as if he’s listening. It’s clear that a small crowd has followed them, led by Mira’s frantic voice. 

“Chancellor Azul, I am sure the king will make time for you after his meal.” Mira snaps, feet skittering along the dirt floor. “He has dismissed court for a break!”

“I have been here for two weeks and have yet to hold audience with him. My king will not allow being ignored.” A voice booms, the tone low and sharp – a strigoi type by the clicking of wings on his back. Other voices boom around him, a group of other nobles and servants attempting to get their words in edgewise.

Agron is wise enough to gently guide Nasir up, but not enough to remove his teeth from his bottom lip. He is waiting to see if Mira will be able to handle it, if Spartacus or even Crixus came with her. Hell, even Barca or Auctus are pretty good at dispelling a crowd of rowdy court nobles. Against him, Nasir loosens his fingers in Agron’s tunic, sliding them down and around his waist. 

“King Agron is a very sought after king. I will put forth your request-“ Mira begins, placating and soothing, but she’s cut off as the Chancellor makes a loud scoffing noise. 

“All I have seen your king do is sit on his throne and do nothing.” Azul shouts, something hitting the canvas door. Mira’s arm shoots out between the fabric, holding onto the frame. “I have important matters to discuss!”

“Your grace, you are going to have to be patient. I am sure his majesty will address your concerns when-“

“When what? When he gets done fucking his little witch?” Azul’s voice rings clear and booming in the room, barely separated by a hanging of pressed canvas and hide. “Or perhaps when he’s done playing maid and changing diapers?”

Eyes meeting, Agron is gentle when he pulls his hands away from Nasir's back, even if his fingertips now end in claws. He has a sprouting of hair down the back of his neck, eyes glowing. 

“Agron! Don’t lose your temper!” Nasir hisses, hands scrambling over Agron’s arm, already too late as the king moves away from him, stalking over to the doorway and ripping it open. The fabric falls to the ground in ribbons.

"Chancellor." Agron grits his teeth, half snarl and half manic grin. His eyes roam over the party there, Mira being wise enough to fall to the side, bowing her head low. "You so loudly called for me? What do you want? You have my attention."

"I-" Chancellor Azul flounders, jaw dropping uselessly. He's a large creature, head sickly pale with maroon eyes and a large set of bat-like wings on his back. Beside him, a few of his fellow dignitaries glance at him awkwardly, at a loss. Agron’s temper is something both feared and legendary within the kingdom. They seem to remember themselves instantly though, dropping to one knee before the high king. 

“Well?” Agron waves his hand abruptly, crossing his arms sharply over his chest. "Have haste. It must be imperative if you grow bold enough to charge into my private rooms, scream in the face of my arms general, and demand above the wishes of an exalted king."

"My king would have me hold private meeting with you." Azul mutters sharply, ducking his head. Etiquette and manners now remembered.

Around him, the group bristles. Agron fills a doorway, crown brushing the now ruined arch, a high king – one that Alptra has been waiting on for a long time. It’s behind him that draws eyes though. Nasir is an enigma, a mystery to the Alptraum court and to its people. Many have heard the story of how Nasir saved all of Alptra, how his magic had torn the vampire Caesar limb from limb, how his screams had shook the earth. Magic so raw, so ancient, the world threatened to tilt in front of his pain. And yet here, in a dimly lit tent, Nasir seems a shimmering phantom, a ghost lingering just behind his king – eyes dark and gaze steady.

“Oh. Is that all?” Agron raises a kingly brow. “What a small issue to so recklessly throw your mortality around for. You do know the punishment for showing such disrespect to the king?"

"No, sire." Azul is trembling, hands fisting in his cloak. He can feel the others around him draw back, as if by being near him they too will share his fate.

Mira very slowly turns her head, meets Nasir’s eye though the half torn doorway. He’s standing beside the table, casually pulling tiny tomatoes from a vine and popping them in his mouth. It’s incredibly calm considering the high king before him is half turned, but Nasir does not flinch when Agron softly growls. If anything, he hides a small grin by lowering his head, pressing his lips tightly together. 

"Banishment at best. Execution at worst." Agron states it as if it's nothing, as if it's a matter of fact - which it is. Around him, the group stills, waiting on baited breath to see what his decision will be. 

"Apologize majesty. I only-" Azul whispers, eyes on the ground. He’s shaking hard enough his wings click together, their leathery skin pulled taut over thin bones, riddled with large, black veins.

"Save it. Go run back to your king and tell him I will see you when I can." Agron waves a hand. "Now, I must return to fucking my witch and changing diapers, wasn't it?"

Azul has the decency not to move, shocked and frozen in horror by the king’s easy tone. He had hoped that Agron was further back, that he hadn't heard it. Reckless and bold when this isn’t Galena, no stone and wood separate them. It's all for not though as Agron suddenly surges forward, hands fisted in the creature's clothes, slamming him into one of the poles that holds the tent up. 

"But remember this, you fucking leech, while your king hides in his caves and plots his little wars," Agron snarls the words into Azul's face, fangs dripping. "I spend my day raising a son that will save this earth from certain destruction and with his father that already has."

“Majesty-“ Azul gaps, hands uselessly flying up beside his face. He’s too terrified to speak after, frozen in place by Agron’s hands and his gaze. 

“Now get out of my sight.”

The vines that grow after Agron turns come from Nasir's hand, a shiver of a grin on his face as Agron stalks back to him. He's not gentle when he kisses Nasir, biting and rough, picking him up once more to place him on the table. Nasir only allows it for a moment, fingers twisting in the tunic before smoothing over Agron's wide shoulders. 

"You threaten a man's life and then kiss me like this?" Nasir asks, breathless and gasping. 

“I was kissing you before I threatened the man’s life.” Agron replies, biting a sucking kiss into Nasir’s collarbone. He knows these breaks are usually sort, more for the royals to eat and relieve themselves than for any sort of comfort. Still, he burns to have Nasir, skin itching to press tight to him, to unwrap the shiny fabric from around his shoulders. 

“Would you like it better if I had killed him first and then kissed you?” Agron raises a slow eyebrow, letting Nasir gasp for breath between them. His face is flushed, pink and turned on. Something delectably charming in the way he tilts his head, Agron watches the grin pull over Nasir’s beautiful face.

“What were you going to do if you did? Use his blood to help you inside me?”

“I doubt it would bother you.” Agron shrugs, raising a hand to brush a fallen hair against Nasir’s cheek. “Do you want me to send for him? I can.”

“No, my king.” Nasir giggles, lightly pressing his hands into Agron’s shoulders, shoving at him. “No murder today.”

“You’re right, of course.” Agron nods easily. He leans into Nasir, lets his arms wrap around his waist. “It is too early. Maybe after lunch.”

Shaking his head, Nasir loops his arms around Agron's neck, dragging him down. The kiss this time is sweet, gentle as Nasir traces his tongue along Agron's bottom lip, grinning into it when Agron nips back. He can’t help it being a little rough, a bite to add an edge. It's rare these days, especially in the summer lands, that they get time alone - even if it's just for a few moments, and the pair relish in it. Agron hugs him tightly, trailing pecking kisses along Nasir's jaw, allowing them the easy pleasure of touch. 

"I can’t tell if your king voice or your dad voice is better,” Nasir giggles, reveling in the attention. Agron’s arms bulge around him, heavy and warm, holding him tightly. 

“I knew it. I knew you got off on me yelling at people.” Agron leans back, grinning down at Nasir, only to be tugged back against him. 

“Shut up.” Nasir grumbles as he rests his head on Agron’s shoulder. “I do not.”

It’s almost instinctual to turn his face in, to inhale deeply against Agron’s throat. He may not be a wolf, but Nasir still finds comfort in the way Agron smells, like skin and pine and hints of jasmine that Nasir knows are from him. It’s a marker, a signature, that Nasir could recall from memory. How many times had he pressed his face here, in their bed or even within a hug, and felt the boiling of anxiety ease out of his spine? This is Nasir’s oasis, the safest place to be. 

“You know, you don’t have to go to court with me. You could stay with the boys.” Agron offers quietly, a comment he has made numerous times. 

“I know.” Nasir confirms, tilting his head up to look at his husband, chin digging into his chest. “It’s good for them to go to school and meet other children though. Plus, who would keep you company?”

“No one good.” Agron grumbles, brushing the back of his hand across Nasir’s cheek. “I just want to make sure you’re taking care of you.”

“What do you mean?” Nasir’s brow furrows, his back straight. 

“Your anxiety has been spiked lately.” Agron says carefully, not pulling away but continuing to caress Nasir’s face. “Is it being here? Is it the festival? Did someone say something?”

“I-“ Nasir lets his mouth hinge open, stuck on what he wants to say. It’s so fucking hard, hard to spit out the words, hard to explain to Agron. But Agron knows. He has been here too, has seen and felt what it was like to be under Gerulf’s rule. “It’s just being here, especially right now. I know he’s dead. I know. I’m just always waiting to look up and have him looming in the doorway.”

“Fuck.” Agron steps halfway back, running a hand through his hair. “I wish I could burn him out of the ground. Fucking resurrect him to kill him again. Why can’t he just go away already?” 

“Agron, stop. We both suffer from it.” Nasir crosses his arms over his chest. “I am trying to deal with it. I am.”

“I don’t expect you to be fine, Nasir.” Agron suddenly turns back. “No matter how much time has passed. I know how he lingers, fucking festers all the time. You think I don’t feel it? Feel him constantly sitting on my shoulder, hissing every time I make a judgement that I know he wouldn’t agree with.”

“It’s better when you’re here. When you remind me that things are different now, that you’re not leaving me again.” Nasir can’t look at him anymore, face burning with frustration and shame. He knows he should be over this, but he’s not. He can’t be. 

“I am never leaving your side again. You know that.” Agron sighs deeply, his hands over his face. He doesn’t know how to fix this. For the first time in his life, it’s a battle he cannot win with a sword or with his fists. 

“We have to stick together, remember? With me. With you.

Agron hums considering, fingers falling back to their normal pattern of ghosting over Nasir’s cheek. He has to bend a little to reach him, kissing him chastely. Then, as if he can’t resist, Agron peppers a half dozen more kisses on Nasir’s soft mouth, the last one slow and careful, lapping inside. Nasir preens under the attention, greedy hands running over Agron’s back again and again, starting to tug on Agron’s tunic when the flap of the servant’s entrance fluttering open interrupts them. 

“Baba! Baba!” 

Malik bounds across the dirt floor, a mess of curls and quick feet. Behind him, Bagoas lingers in the doorway, face creased in worry, hands clenched at his sides. In one of his fists is Malik’s tunic, the other holding his shoes. The prince seems unphased, bounces hard into Agron’s thigh, and lifting his arms. Agron easily scoops him up, depositing a rough kiss to his cheek and jostling him. 

“No hello Daddy?” Agron frowns, ruffling Malik’s hair. The little boy easily catches his hand, pressing a wet kiss to the palm of it. “No hello for me?”

“Hi Daddy.” Malik grins wide, cheeks dimpling a mirror to Agron’s. Agron can’t resist, kissing his cheek again before depositing the boy in Nasir’s open lap. Malik instantly wraps his arms around Nasir’s neck, turning his face in to scent him.

“Hello Habibi.” Nasir coos, brushing Malik’s hair back from his forehead and kissing it three times. “How was your day?”

“Okay.” Malik murmurs, his little hands pressing to Nasir’s cheeks. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Nasir kisses him again on his cheek. “Why are you half naked?”

“It’s hot.” Malik tangles his fingers in Nasir’s necklaces. “Melitta said it was okay because we were going to go swimming. But then Sepp had an accident and fell asleep in his lunch. And I said I wanted to go swimming but no one would take me. Melitta said I couldn’t command her to do anything until I was at least taller than Baba.”

Agron raises an eyebrow at Nasir, backing away to pull a plate from the other table. Malik is to the wonderful age where he loves telling stories – just not all of them make sense or actually happened. Agron continues to listen to him ramble as he picks over the trays, pulling random things onto it and then lifting them for Nasir to see, getting his approval. When he comes back over to sit beside them, he places the bounty between them, sharing. 

“So Seppy and Kieran are napping?” Nasir asks, settling Malik more firmly across his legs so he can see Agron as well. There are chairs they could move down to but Nasir ignores it, using one instead to rest his feet on. 

“Yes.” Malik tugs a handful of cheese cubes towards him. “I didn’t want to.”

“You don’t have to sleep if you don’t want to.” Agron murmurs, reaching with a napkin and brushing some of the dirt off Malik’s shoulders. “Did you train with the swords today?”

“Yes! I was so fast. All the boys in my class couldn’t fight me. Oenomaus said I was almost better than Daddy.” Malik beams, instantly raising his arms in a tight formation, almost as if a small sword was in hand. “Super fast.”

“Already better than me?” Agron raises a brow, suddenly scooping the little boy up. His fingers are quick as they dance along Malik’s stomach, tickling him ruthlessly as he squirms and giggles. “I don’t think so yet, little man. Not yet.”

“I am! I am!” Malik squeals, kicking his legs. 

Agron manages to wrap him up in his arms, depositing kisses all over his face before setting him back down. Nasir watches all of this with clear amusement, grinning into his cup of water. Although it is a lingering dark cloud over them, Nasir has never had any doubts that Agron is a good father. Malik may be Nasir’s small miracle, the baby he fought so hard and so long to protect, but Malik loves Agron with his whole heart. Nasir could watch them forever, be happy and joyful around one another. He nearly chokes then, when breathless and red faced, Malik leans into his side. 

“Baba, what’s a witch?”

Agron doesn’t necessarily freeze, but he does pause, a piece of bread half the way to his mouth. He is careful not to share his thoughts, the inner monologue of expletives not seeming helpful. It feels like everything they had whispered last night, all the carefully constructed reassurance is crashing down around them. Nasir is careful not to look at his husband, turning on the table to fully see his son's face. 

“Where did you hear that, Malik?” Nasir asks, voice shaking. 

"A witch is a name for someone who practices magic." Agron interjects, carefully phrasing the words in Pythonissan. He isn't sure if Nasir, who is hiding his growing panic well, would be able to handle hearing it in Alptraum. 

"Like Baba and Uncle Pietros?" Malik asks, continuing to pick over his parents' plate, munching noisily on an apple slice. 

"In a way." Agron watches Nasir out of the corner of his eye. He can almost hear him doing the math. If the Wolf Moon Festival is in five days, that means the anniversary of Gerulf's poisoning is in three. Agron almost wants to shake him, to remind him that time has moved on, but he turns to Malik instead, sitting down on the chair before the little boy and gently turning him forward. 

"Witch can be a good thing, like someone who uses their powers to help people or heal the sick. Or it also can be meant meanly. Like a bad word."

"Oh." Malik's voice is small, confused by Agron's serious tone. "Melitta called Völva an old witch because she wanted me to drink some special juice."

“Special juice? What special juice?” Nasir asks gently considering his hands are shaking as they’re clenched in his lap. 

“I don’t know, Baba. Something with goat’s milk or goat’s blood. Said Daddy used to drink it.” Malik sighs dramatically, leaning his head against Nasir’s shoulder. “You know how she is.”

It’s so spectacularly Agron, sassy to the point where he even rolls his eyes, lips pursed in the same pout Nasir has perfected. It's like a breeze has swept though the tent and Nasir is whisked away with it, collapsing in on himself in relief. Agron can almost follow him, can almost feel the bones in his spine slipping, relaxing one at a time. Malik shrugs a shoulder, unsure and unconcerned, pulling another apple into his mouth. 

"Baba," Malik leans forward again, nuzzling into his shoulder. He turns large green eyes up Nasir, his long eyelashes fluttering. Malik knows what it does to Nasir, buttering it thicker with a quivering bottom lip. "Can I go to court with you?"

"Malik," Nasir sighs slowly, tilting his head to look down at his son. "You know you'll just get bored. Besides, you have afternoon lessons."

"I won't get bored! I won't!" Malik chirps, wiggling. "I won't. I'll be good. I can sit between you and Daddy."

"Habibi." Nasir taps Malik's bottom lip, wrinkling his nose. 

"He does have to learn the ways of the court eventually." Agron supplies unhelpfully, winking when Malik beams at him. They're coconspirators when it comes to Nasir.

"He needs to learn to write his letters." Nasir quips, pursing his lips. He slips from the table, dusting off his knees to stall time. Usually when it comes to Malik, Nasir is the pushover. He'll cave every time. It's hard when Malik looks so much like Agron and Nasir together, dimples and green eyes and a pouting bottom lip.

“Fine, come on. But you need to go potty first.” Nasir holds out his hand.

“I don’t need to go potty.” Malik hops from the table, already rushing towards the entrance back to the hall. 

“You don’t need to go potty now. But you will as soon as your daddy starts court and he can’t stop to take you again.” Nasir calls, following Agron back towards the vined entrance. 

They make their way down the hall once more, Malik babbling about his lessons that day and what Sepp had done. He’s still struggling with not being able to fully shift yet, furious that Malik does it so easily. It’s something they’re going to have to address with him soon. Kieran is almost to the point of walking, so he’s not too mobile, but he crawls very fast and will chase Malik when he feels like it. 

The royal court tent is starting to fill again, Agron and Nasir drawing attention and quick bows. Not everyone has made it back though, the small band in the corning playing soft music as drinks are passed around – trying to beat the summer heat. They might have been able to escape too, halfway through the main stretch, when someone suddenly steps in the way, dropping to a knee with a short growl. Nasir doesn’t even get a chance to see who it is as Agron’s arm catches him around the waist, hand rough on his hip as he stops him and then shoves him behind. Nasir has only half a second to keep Malik behind him in the same manner, all of them stopping in a tight line. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Agron’s voice is deep, growling loudly enough that the music cuts off abruptly. 

“Agron, we return every ten years as promised, to welcome in the Wolf Moon.” The voice is strange, slurred as if he’s speaking around too many teeth. Nasir can’t see him, can’t even peak as Agron’s grip is bruising.

“We were given no notice.” Agron’s claws bite dangerously into Nasir’s hip. Behind him, Malik softly whimpers, not liking the sudden shift. 

“Come now, brother. Your father knew we would return to him. Where is the king so we may greet him properly?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Nasir watches Spartacus suddenly enter the tent and walk up the main aisle. He’s flanked on either side by Auctus and Crixus, Barca and Naevia just behind. The crowd that had been pleasantly mingling before watches with large eyes, mouths left hanging, and Nasir doesn’t understand. He can’t see, can’t move with the way Agron is holding him, and he in turn their son. But something feels off, terrible and dangerous, as the hairs on his arms stand on end. 

_”Go spend the afternoon with the boys”_ Agron’s voice is suddenly loud and sharp in Nasir’s mind. 

_”I would stay with you.”_ Nasir tries, but it’s to no avail. 

Agron’s claws slip from his skin, a warm palm on his bare hip, before he turns around. Nasir swallows his gasp. Agron’s eyes are glowing, fangs denting his bottom lip. It’s his expression though, murderous rage barely hidden behind a tightly clenched jaw. A phantom of the way Spartacus is scowling as well, hands resting on the swords strapped to both of his hips. 

“Go. I will return to you later.” Agron’s kiss is chaste and brief, but his hand on Nasir’s neck is not, pushing against him until Nasir has no other choice than to take a step back. Agron is not asking him to leave, but instead demands as a king.

With a scowl, Nasir turns then, hoisting Malik into his arms even though the boy is heavy now and protesting. Bagoas and Pietros seem to materialize out of thin air, then Mira and Diona to take up the rear as the consort’s house makes their way down the tented room and into the hot, bright sunshine. Nasir walks out with his head held high, fighting against the stinging command making his face flush with anger. He manages to glance back when then get to the door, just a peak, but all he can see is Agron with hair suddenly sliding down the back of his neck, growling loudly. 

\- - -

The black bands around Sepp's wrists are not perfect circles. They're a smeared mess, the edges faded into speckles and dots that inch up his forearms, more birthmark than ink. They are pitch black though, dark and stretching across his tan skin, as if a paint brush has slashed across him. 

Nasir traces his fingers over them sometimes, when he's holding Sepp or when he's asleep. They're violent and glaring against the little boy - a constant reminder of what happened and even worse, what could have. It makes Nasir hold him closer, cherish him in a way that is separate than the way he celebrates Malik or Kieran. 

He doesn’t know what he’s going to tell Sepp when he inevitably asks. How can Nasir even begin to explain it to him? That he was kidnapped and poisoned by a vampire who wanted to murder one father, steal the other, and turn his brother into an apocalyptic warrior for his cause? Nasir tries to forget Caesar’s face. He has been trying since he ripped him apart. But it will not leave him. Just as Gerulf will not leave him. Nasir can close his eyes and see Caesar’s glowing red eyes, feel his breath on Nasir’s neck. It’s the same as the phantom press of Gerulf’s hands to his throat, to around his waist, to his back. 

Furious and seething, Nasir wants to take his nails to his mind, to scratch and pick at the scabs and the old scars that cover so much hurt. Anxiety and stress twist like a fucking noose around his neck, tightening with every day they get closer to the Wolf Moon. Nasir has already done this five times and he still thinks he’s going to look at the doorway and see Gerulf’s looming form, to his grabbing hands and golden cuff. How can Nasir ever heal if he hasn’t told Agron everything that has happened? There is so much to rehash and Nasir is tired and angry and so very fucking hurt. 

Currently, Malik is curled up in the corner on a large over stuffed pillow, fiddling with a metal logic puzzle that Spartacus gave him. Kieran is sitting nearby, his gaze shifting from the small pile of toys in front of him to his brother and then back. He's been half heartedly rolling a ball between his legs, observing the room with curious eyes. It’s too hot to do much of anything, the top of the tent rolled back to let in air but the sides are still tied to the earth for privacy.

Nasir has been pacing, making a further path in the floor (Agron has already lain the first track), but he finally collapses back on a collection of pillows, staring moodily into the fire. He is trying to stay calm, to center himself and remind himself that Agron will return and everything will be fine. It's not working though. He keeps replaying the scene in court over and over in his mind - the way he talked to them, Agron's voice dipping and snarling, his hand on Nasir's neck pushing him back. Agron never talks to him like that, commands him like a king - like there is no other option. It makes Nasir’s skin crawl, the gnawing pit of his stomach growing.

"Baba?" Sepp asks quietly, shuffling over. He’s been twisting the edge of his tunic in his hands so the fabric is wrinkled and scrunched.

"Yes baby?" Nasir glances up, pulled from his musings. Regardless of how miserable or furious he feels, Nasir tries very hard not to let the children know. 

“Can I sit with you?” 

He kicks a foot towards the free pillow to the right of Nasir’s hip, head bowed low. It’s a half-hearted motion as suddenly Sepp is crying, his hands grabby and stretching. Nasir is quick to reach for him, pulling the wailing little boy into his arms and lap. It happens so fast Nasir barely has time to sit up, juggling the little boy’s arms and legs so he can sit close and comfortable, even in the stifling heat. Across the room, Malik moves to get up, to come over, but Nasir shakes his head, motioning to Kieran. He’s started to tear up from the noise and so Malik sits beside him, rolling the ball to distract him. 

“What’s wrong, honey?” Nasir soothes, his hands patting methodically along Sepp’s back. “What happened?”

“I want to be a wolf!” Sepp wails miserably, his tiny fists tugging on Nasir’s shirt, half a handful of hair. 

“You are a wolf. What do you mean? You are a wolf.” Nasir gently turns him back, brushes a hand over Sepp’s blotchy cheeks. “What is this all about?”

“I’m not. I’m not!” Sepp whimpers, his tiny fists rubbing at his eyes. “Malik says Daddy is gonna let him run on the Wolf Moon. And I wanna go! But Malik says I can’t because I’m not a wolf.”

Nasir turns sharp eyes towards his oldest son, raising a slow eyebrow, and Malik diligently becomes very interested in entertaining Kieran. It is a conversation they will be having later. 

“You are wolf, Sepp. Just because you can’t fully shift yet doesn’t mean you’re not a wolf.” Nasir brushes his curls back from his forehead, planting a kiss there. “And Malik is wrong; he will not be running on the Wolf Moon. You both will be staying back here as you always do.”

“But!” Malik protests but Nasir shoots him another look, scowling. 

“My answer on this hasn’t changed, habibi. No.” Nasir shakes his head. “Maybe when you’re older, but right now, you’re too young.”

“I am a big boy-“ Malik starts but Nasir turns his attention back to Sepp. 

He isn’t sobbing anymore, but pouting his lips out and sniffling. There are twin blotches of red high on his cheeks, eyelashes wet and clumped together. Gently, Nasir pulls him further into his lap, kissing the top of his head gently and stroking over his crown. There are so many things he wants to give his children – a life without stress, the best education, a loving home with parents that spoil and teach them how to be good people. And yet, it seems that even the smallest things can hurt them. 

“Is there something wrong with me?” Sepp asks, his fingers trailing down his wrists. A wounded sound escapes Nasir’s throat before he can swallow it, curling Sepp up until he can hold his face, look into his big, hazel eyes. 

“Absolutely not.” 

Nasir kisses both of his cheeks. 

“You are perfect, Sepp. Absolutely perfect. Your daddy and I love you so much. And I know you are worried about it, but your shift will come and everything will be fine. You don’t have to rush it. When you are ready, then it will happen.”

“But I am ready now!” Sepp whines, tilting his head back. Nasir is careful to support him, smiling gently. 

“You might be ready, but your body isn’t ready.” Nasir tries to explain. “Seppy, you’re only four. You have a long time to go until you’re all grown up. Let your body stretch and grow the way it needs to.”

“But Uncle Duro said Daddy was a wolf super early.” Malik butts in, looking up from playing with Kieran’s ball. “And that he could run with the moon as early as three! And I’m five and the prince and I am going to run!”

“Malik.” Nasir starts, brushing the last tear from Sepp’s cheek and standing him up. Nasir gets to his feet after, moving across the room and picking Kieran up. There is no point in waiting for Agron it seems. The sun is nearly set and dinner needs to be had. 

“I want-“ Malik begins to wail, and Nasir turns to him, mouth in a thin line. 

“I know you do. I know.” Taking a deep breath, he crouches down, gently cupping Malik’s cheek. “And I want you to be safe. So, I’m sorry but the answer is no, okay?”

“It’s not okay.” Malik lowers his head. He won’t push the limit though, knows better than to pull that with Nasir. Instead, he gently pats Kieran’s head and continues to play with him, pouting all the while. 

“I wish Daddy was here.” Sepp sniffles and Nasir must close his eyes. 

It’s not that he doesn’t love or want his sons. They are his world, his whole heart in these three, tiny little boys. It’s just so hard sometimes. Agron and Nasir are a team, they stick together and make decisions that benefit all the boys. Still, sometimes, it takes Nasir by surprise how very young he is himself. He’s barely twenty-five and already the father of three sons – boys who all are so very different and have different needs. Nasir doesn’t know when Sepp will turn into a wolf; he doesn’t know how to tell Malik that though he is a long-awaited titan, he is still a little boy. How can he tell Kieran that the whole world is his to explore but that he must be brave enough to take it?

“I do too.” Hoisting Kieran higher on his hip, Nasir turns towards the table, ushering the boys. Servants have already come to lay out the meal, lingering just beyond the tent if they are needed. “Come on. Let’s eat. Your father will be back soon.”

\- - - 

_  
"The King summons you." Castus enters the tent with little regard of its resident, striding in confident and sure. It is not the proper way - not even vaguely polite considering it’s a high prince’s home. It is a move meant to put its occupant in its place._

_"Summons me? For what?" Nasir had been in the middle of mixing a small pain potion - something to ease the ache in his knees and back. It bubbles frothy and light over the small fire._

_"I don't know. He just wants you. Come on." Castus stoops, taking the chain from the floor and lightly tugging on it. It makes Nasir's wrist jerk, scattering lavender petals all over the dirt. Nasir sends him a look, unimpressed, but Castus just smirks at him, tugging again._

_“Come on, little prince. The king won’t wait forever to see your pretty face.” Castus lazily swings the chain in a circle._

_Getting to his feet, Nasir has to use water nearby to snuff the small fire and move the healing balm to the side. Castus is not patient through this, but he gets his fill by drinking in Nasir, eyes roaming over him as he bends over. Nasir can feel it, stomach churning with the attention, but he says nothing. The baby growing inside of him must be protected at all costs, and if that means Nasir has to be ogled, so be it._

_The royal tent is dark when Nasir slips inside, only the low fire and a few torches on the supports light the room. He’s never been inside Gerulf’s personal tent before, never had any need. It is similar to Agron’s though, a large bed in the corner, a bathroom with a large tub to one side, a fire pit in the center. There is a long table near it though, scattered with food and maps and wine goblets. Gerulf, himself, sits at the end of it, an amphora held in his right hand as the other weighs down the edge of a scroll._

_“You summoned me.” Nasir is wise not to approach him, lingering as close to the door as he can. Castus had tossed the chain in without much thought, leaving Nasir fairly-free moving. It is a blessing and a curse._

_Gerulf barely raises his head, motioning with his hand when his eyes find Nasir in the dim light. His cheeks are red and sweat has beaded on his forehead, beard stained red under his lower lip from wine. It looks like blood in the light._

_“Come here, witch.”_

_Carefully, Nasir moves along the wall, making sure he can keep his eye on the doorway. His stomach twists, anxiety and stress suddenly clogged at the back of his throat. It’s obvious that Gerulf is drunk, heavy, watery eyes pegging him as he approaches, but his eyes glimmer gold – still a wolf._

_“Tell me,” Gerulf slurs, his hand skirting on the amphora, “where does your power come from? What ancient mystery holds your secret?”_

_“Your highness?” Nasir asks, voice barely above a whisper. He sends out a silent prayer, a plea for Duro or someone to interrupt them, but he knows it won’t happen. When Gerulf wants to corner someone, to do what he wants, there is no one to stop him. He is the king._

_“Your powers. Your magic.” Gerulf suddenly leans back, staring at Nasir through narrowed eyes. “Where does it come from?”_

_“We are born with them. We don’t get a choice.”_

_Gerulf makes a considering noise, pushing his legs against the earth. With the cracking and popping of wood, his chair slides over the soft dirt, the table shaking as he presses his palms to it and lumbers up. Nasir presses his back further against the tent wall, surveying his options. There is the doorway he entered through, heavily guarded, or there is a smaller opening in the back for servants. If he needs to, it would be easier to slip through the folds that way, but it will only be a short escape as guards now roam the city more heavily than before – guards and shadows loyal to the king._

_“You must be missing my son greatly.” Gerulf’s sudden change in topic has Nasir’s attention snapping back to him, cursing himself for not noticing that Gerulf has shuffled closer._

_“We all feel the prince’s absence.” Nasir responds carefully. It’s so hot in the tent, the summer oppressing and sticky, making the hair on Nasir’s neck curl. “I will be overjoyed when he returns.”_

_“Such loyalty for someone who barely knows their husband.” Gerulf takes another step closer. “But I suppose you think your magic can tame the beast, collar the monster I have spent all of Agron’s life carving out. He is magnificent, isn’t he? So close to pure rage – tipped just over into darkness.”_

_“There is light in Agron.” Nasir defends softly, fingers twitching against his pants. He wants so badly to spark up, to let the fire overwhelm him, but he can’t._

_“So optimistic. I’m sure he filled your head with ideas of grandeur – of love and commitment.” Gerulf smirks, reaching over to gently stroke a finger down one of Nasir’s curls. “It’s a trick all men use to claim their prize in bed.”_

_“I do not think you know him as I do.” Nasir whispers, back sweating against the rough hide of the tent._

_“No, you do not know him at all.” Gerulf muses, his breath hot and moist against Nasir’s cheek. “Your poison will never be allowed to ruin him, little witch. He is too far in my hand, my weapon, my dog to call and heel when I desire. You cannot soften a heart that I have already removed.”_

_“I-“ Nasir is at a loss of words, his legs shaking with the panic of needing to go, to run. It’s no use though as suddenly Gerulf is lashing out, gripping Nasir’s wrist and dragging him forward. Feet skidding on the dirt, Nasir barely has a moment to cry out before he’s being thrust against one of the pillars of the tent, caged in by Gerulf’s bruising grip._

_“Do not think you are invisible.” Gerulf snarls, his spit misting over Nasir’s cheek. “I have seen the way you weave your little spells, your little magic, as if it will save you. You are in my kingdom now. And Agron belongs to me. And now so do you.”_

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Nasir tries to curl himself down, pull himself into a half-curved ball, terrified Gerulf will notice the curve of his stomach now._

_Considering, Gerulf moves his free hand to Nasir’s cheek, forcing his head up and into the light. He drags his nose against Nasir’s cheek, scenting him with a slow inhale, letting a small growl reverberate against his ear as he leans in._

_“You are not dumb, Nasir, so stop acting like it.” The way Gerulf says his name sends Nasir into chills, trembling at the soft roll of it. He’s never heard the king say it before. “You will not win this battle.”_

_“He may be your son, but he is a free man.” Nasir pulls back as much as he can, using Gerulf’s slow, drunken moves to his advantage as he yanks away, ducking under Gerulf’s arm. “And he will not always cower under your rule.”_

_“Such naïve hope. You have no idea what is coming.” Gerulf snarls, turning to chase him, stomping over the ground. He is so much bigger than Nasir, so heavy and weighed down with armor and drink. It only gives Nasir the advantage of speed, dashing across the tent, but Gerulf does not tire the way Nasir does._

_“You can kill me. But what will that give you? Agron will never forgive you.”_

_“Does it look like I seek his forgiveness, little witch?” Gerulf turns, his fangs descending slow and yellow in his mouth. “What fear you will have when you find out who is coming for you.”_

_Nasir back peddles, caught off guard as one of Gerulf’s powerful arms swings down, catching him in the jaw. Blood blooms in Nasir’s mouth, copper and acidic. He has half a mind to stagger to the side, reaching towards the table for something to use as a weapon as Gerulf’s other fist collides with his back, bruising his shoulder blade._

_“Agron should have beat some manners into you while he was here.” Gerulf’s heavy footsteps seem to shake the very ground as he chases Nasir, his shadow casting half the tent in darkness. “I will just have to do it myself.”_

_Turning with a cry, Nasir brandishes the small fruit knife before him. It’s a desperate attempt – Nasir having been trained with daggers and little else. He wishes Spartacus had been able to make good on his promise to train Nasir to fight. It won’t matter now. Gerulf will kill him for this, for attempting to defend himself and his baby. Instead, his grip is ruined by Gerulf’s arm knocking into him, the knife skittering over the dirt._

_“Stop!”_

_Magic burns through Nasir, the air raising in static as suddenly vines sprout from the earth, tripping the king. Nasir rolls against the table, falling to the ground just as Gerulf goes down, splintering the wood and crushing it under him. Food and papers slide down onto the now unconscious king, splattering his back with soups and wine._

_“Your highness?” Castus charges into the tent, skidding to a stop when he sees the king, then over to where Nasir rests at the base of the pillar – illuminated bright by the torch. His hair is half undone, lip oozing blood and eyes huge._

_“He tried to attack me. I-“ Nasir pants, pointing towards where the king has collapsed. “I moved and he-“_

_“Shh. Hush, majesty.” Carefully, Castus wraps an arm around Nasir’s shoulders, helping him to his feet. “The king collapsed from drink and you struck your face on the table. He won’t remember this night in the morning. We should call for some guards to help him to his bed.”_

_Nasir is at a loss, struck silent again as Castus uses the edge of his cloak to press to Nasir’s lip. It’s kindness with an agenda, Castus looking at him closely, stroking his hair, but Nasir ends up nodding anyways. If a lie that saves his life only costs some ogling, then Nasir will let him look._

\- - - 

Nearly a two hours later, Nasir has resumed his spot in front of the fire, lost in the flames and the memories that burn there. The boys have been fed, bathed, and put to bed. Nasir could barely bring himself to eat, stuck between juggling feeding Kieran and keeping Malik from dissolving into a temper tantrum. Sepp had been fine except for the constant sniffling. 

He can’t bring himself to go to bed, tracing his thumb over and over along the scar on his wrist. It was put there the first time they welded the cuff shut, the flames burning and curling the skin under the gold. Everywhere Nasir tries to find healing, he is again force fed the trauma of this place. He wishes he could scrub it from his mind, but it lingers like a bad taste in his mouth.

Bagoas and Diona are both still awake. Nasir knows they were worried about him, lingered around with the rest of the lesser hands – waiting to be fully dismissed or praying that Agron would come in and distract Nasir. It hadn’t happened though, and finally Nasir had sent them away from him – annoyed and impatient. Only Pietros had stayed, kissing the top of Nasir’s head and whispering to him in Pythonissan. Nasir couldn’t respond too much, anxious and sick, and had finally sent him to his tent too. 

A light rap on the canvas has Nasir’s eyes drawn to the doorway as the guards part the opening, announcing the arrival of Spartacus – flanked on either side by guards of his own. Spartacus leaves them at the door though, striding across the pressed dirt with a hesitancy he doesn’t usually have. He’s wearing a subligaria and armor, the heat oppressive enough that even tunics feel like too much. Still, his face is lined and scowling, managing a slight uptick when he notices Nasir 

“Good evening your highness. I come from the king’s side with a message. He’s summoned you to the feast tent.” Dropping to one knee, Spartacus bows low with a hand to his shoulder.

“Excuse me? Summons me?” 

Rage burns through Nasir, the flames in the fire pit suddenly raising high and crackling. Spartacus steps away from it, bouncing to his feet in surprise, but bowing his head again. 

“He would have come himself, but he is occupied with our newest guests. He requests that I escort you to the feast.”

“Summons me? Like a fucking dog? To heel beside him?” Nasir snaps, standing up sharply. He knows not all of his anger is due to Agron, unfairly directed at Spartacus, but he can’t seem to control it. Everything is burning inside of him- choking him by his own thoughts – anxiety and frustration sharpening everything into acute frame. 

“My king, you must understand. He doesn’t mean offense.” Spartacus glances towards the door and then draws closer, touching Nasir’s shoulder. “Nasir, please. We are living in dangerous times now and-“

“I don’t want you to defend my husband to me.” Nasir hisses, instantly regretting it as Spartacus frowns, pulling away. It’s not like him to be so harsh with him – Spartacus is one of Nasir’s oldest friends here. Sighing, he rubs a hand through his sweaty hair, leveling Spartacus with a look. “I don’t understand what is going on, Spartacus. Please, you’re not in the habit of lying to me. Don’t start now.”

“I can’t explain everything.” Spartacus holds up his hand when Nasir begins to protest. “I don’t have enough time. But we have new visitors in the city – the Gräuel. They’re part of the Alptraum people but not – It’s said they are the result of an ancient bastard line. There is no proof they hold claim to the throne, but they still seem to believe it.”

“So what’s so bad about them?” Nasir asks, shrugging. “They’re not able to fully change?”

“They follow an old set of customs, ones that put themselves and the wolf line about all others. The Gräuel live in the eastern hills, hunting in packs and avoiding societal life. They think they are the true Alptra heirs.” Spartacus grimaces, dropping his gaze for only a moment before he meets Nasir’s eyes. “They also were very big fans of Gerulf.”

“Oh.” Nasir nods, suddenly very understanding. 

“Their leader, Roul, is the one who entered court today unannounced.” Spartacus grimaces. “He’s always been supportive of Agron taking the throne but-“

“But he isn’t about me.” Nasir nods, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Don’t take it personally. He doesn’t know you, Nasir. He still thought Agron was just the crowned heir. They’ve always been Alptra nationalist and are entitled to be here every ten years by some ancient law.” Spartacus gently reaches forward, prying Nasir’s hand from where he’s clenched them. “I am only telling you this because the Gräuel are known to be violent. They were Gerulf’s favorite.”

“And what does our king have to say about this?” Nasir raises a brow, not recoiling from Spartacus’ gentle touch. 

“You know.” Spartacus frowns at Nasir, as if the question is ridiculous. “But even the king is bound by law.” 

Nasir watches Spartacus’ fingers against his own, the rough patches and scars. He had been the first to push a sword into Nasir’s hand, the first to teach him how to defend himself, so that no man can ever choose his fate for him again. And now, Nasir knows who he is – is proud of his past and the strives he has mad. Nasir will not back down from it, won’t hide anymore – especially not from some random racist man. 

“Well then.” Nasir pulls back, leveling Spartacus with a look. “My king requests his Pythonissan consort – and that’s what he’s going to get.”

“I don’t think-“ Spartacus starts, but Nasir raises his hand, silencing him. 

“Agron shouldn’t be kept waiting. Can you go fetch Pietros and Bagoas? I need to change.” 

Nasir does not make sure Spartacus is listening to him as he moves to the trunks in the corner, unlocking the latch with the twin snakes curled around them. 

 

\- - - 

The week leading up to the Wolf Festival has always been full of excitement, the cities of Alptraum brimming with events and all sorts of celebrations. The marketplaces brim with white chocolate moon cakes filled with blueberry jam, roast boar smothered in onion and rosemary gravy, silk robes and hammered masks, and firecrackers and poppers exploding silver and gold light all over the ground. 

When Agron was younger, he used to try and sneak into the peasant side of the village. There, he would devour honeyed starfruit and sponge cake, chase and play stick ball and tag with the other boys his age, and later, when he was older, he'd sneak down alleys and around corners to indulge in a completely different pleasure. 

He used to think that every festival would be like that - exciting and enticing. No one warned him what would happen the older he got. 

Agron is stuck standing in a small circle, Roul on one side and another emissary from a neighboring land on the other. He's tried to tune out much of the small talk, uninterested in the babble of stronger armies and oppressing the people that stand against it. It's a Gerulf's conversation. One Agron has no interest in partaking in. Instead, he's occupied himself with quiet 'hmms' when appropriate and draining as much wine as possible. 

He had sent Spartacus to fetch Nasir - both out of royal necessity and selfish desire. It's important that Nasir makes appearances - both as the consort and the father to the three heirs. People like to see him, to try and obtain his attention, make pleasant small talk. Agron has no interest in it. Instead, he wants to see Nasir's face reflecting in the firelight, share little looks with him over cups of wine, press kisses to his jaw and cheek when he says something particularly clever It's boring without him and Agron misses the easy way they take people apart, scathing remarks and laughing at jokes that aren't always spoken. 

Roul is still talking when Agron tunes back into the conversation, something nasty and scathing about the Muka in the south. He talks with a lot of importance for someone who is so clearly ignorant about the world. Agron motions for a servant to refill his wine, rolling his eyes at his companions. If he has to listen to this, the least he can be is drunk. He might be able to slip away, probably could of, if the guards at the door hadn't suddenly called for attention - announcing another joining the party. Agron has just enough time to turn his head and promptly drops his goblet of wine. 

It's a lot to take in. 

Nasir is leading, hair piled into a complicated knot at the top of his head, his crown glinting around his temples. He has wrapped himself in jewels, strands of gold and pearls down his bare chest, a chain looped casually around his waist. The pants he’s wearing are a pair that Agron has never seen before. They’re completely open on the sides, the front and back held across Nasir’s hip by three interlocking gold circles and tiny cuffs at the ankle, slung dangerously low. They only serve to keep the fabric against him, though it is clear that Nasir isn’t wearing anything under it. 

Agron’s eyes seem to be unable to focus, acknowledging that both Pietros and Bagoas are dressed similarly behind him, but Agron cannot see anyone but Nasir. He doesn’t even know what to linger on, the sweat curls just behind Nasir’s ear, his lazy smirk as he walks barefoot across the dirt floor – the crowd seeming to almost hold their breath in anticipation, or maybe the set of bruises up Nasir’s hips that Agron is sure he put there himself. In the end, the choice is taken from him as Nasir steps up onto the platform before Agron, bowing down onto one knee. 

“Your majesty.” Nasir’s voice is soft, but it’s in Pythonissan with accent thick and Agron gets a rush of heat straight to his groin. It’s like Nasir is nineteen all over again, presenting himself for the first time on their wedding day.

“My king.” Agron replies, using the same tongue as he slips his hand into Nasir’s. He presses a kiss across his knuckles, tugging him to stand.

“You called for your consort and I am here. Though your guests do not look pleased.” Nasir’s crooked smirk is only strengthen by his blush – but from the heat in the tent or Agron’s intense gaze is unclear. What is apparent though is Roul shifting behind Agron, muttering something in Alptraum. 

“I did not request you for them.” Agron burns to whisper the words into Nasir’s mind, but it’s too close to the Wolf Moon. He can barely shift his eyes, let alone use their magic. Instead, he continues to use Nasir’s native tongue, at least allowing that small privacy. 

“No. You requested your Pythonissan husband; that is what you will get.” 

Nasir slips his hand onto Agron’s bare chest, teasing his fingers along the tan strings around his throat. He uses them to pull Agron to him, the kiss open and wet from the start. Agron can feel his cock twitch with Nasir’s soft moan, the game already being set. It’s short lived. Nasir pulls back with a slick sound, his tongue curling slowly to touch his top lip. 

“Now,” Nasir murmurs, “perhaps we should sit. I require wine.” 

“And you shall have it.” Agron snaps his fingers, motioning for the servants. He notices out of the corner of his eye that Duro is practically drooling, eyes wide and mouth open as his husband ignores him just behind Nasir. In fact, Pietros is boredly picking at his nails, looking as if he’s at a court meeting more than a feast. 

“Come.” Nasir motions towards where there is a low table laid out for them, pillows and short chairs arranged in mock of the throne room. Nasir’s spot has been left vacant though there is a small bowl of dripping honeyed figs just before it. 

“My king,” Roul interrupts suddenly, his voice slurred and booming as he once more steps in their way, “I request an introduction. Who is your companion that speaks such foreign tongue?”

“You need not know.” Agron snarls, eying the man. Just because they value themselves as if distant cousins to the crown doesn’t mean everyone does. 

“He is not an Alptraum.” Roul shrugs, gaze trailing over Nasir. “And yet he approaches you as if he is one.”

“I am King Nasir. Consort to King Agron. The bearer of three Alptraum princes.” Carefully and with accent painted on thicker than normal, Nasir chokes out the words in common tongue. Very carefully, he lets his fingers linger against Agron’s waists, his thumb close to Agron’s sword.

“King Agron,” Roul begins, his words sharp and angry. Behind him, half a dozen of his group bristles as well, leaning close to murmur to one another. “This must be a mistake. A joke. Have you gone mad? Would your father think of this?” 

“Watch tongue.” Agron grits between bared teeth. “I think not of what the dead think of the living.”

“But he’s-“ Roul considers, switching to Alptraum as if Nasir will not understand them, “one of _those people_. The magicians that roam the woods. I have heard all about their black magic, their rituals. They serve a dark god. He must have bewitched you. Why has no one said such things to you?”

Agron considers how to answer it – there are so many titles he could bestow upon his husband, so many ways to defend him. Yet, Nasir takes opportunity. Turning, he raises brow at the other man, face falling into a scowl. In carefully spoken Alptraum, his accent sharp and hissing.

“Move. You block your kings.”

Roul’s eyes widen, gaze skirting from Agron down to Nasir and back, shocked into silence. Nasir seems unamused though, motioning with his hand. In an instant, both Barca and Auctus are there, forcefully pushing Roul out of Nasir’s path and to the side. Agron has to hide his grin behind his hand as he follows Nasir up onto the platform. 

“What game is this, my love?” Agron asks once they’re settled, once more falling into Pythonissan. They’re fairly separated from the others, leaning close and sharing one large pillow. 

“Your new guests are bigots. They stand and praise your kind as if you are higher or more worthy than mine. He isn’t even part of the royal line. Spartacus told me they can’t fully shift.” Nasir replies, shrugging nonchalant. “I refuse to hide who I am. A Pythonissan sits on this throne. I am your consort. And I will not erase that part of me.”

“I have never wanted you to.” Agron frowns, reaching out to slowly draw a honeyed fruit to Nasir’s mouth, feeding it to him in a move that should be frowned on. Agron doesn’t care about the implications or the etiquette, instead watches Nasir’s soft mouth curl around it, gently suckling on his fingers. 

“I know.” Nasir leans in, pressing a sticky and sweet kiss to Agron’s mouth. “But there are others who do. And seeing him suffer amuses me. He’s probably sitting over there seething and yet, it won’t change where I sit. Our sons are half Pythonissan. And I will not allow them to be ashamed of it either.” 

“So you aim to be the most Pythonissan you can be?” Agron laughs. He knows there are people watching them, feasting and observing as their kings press lingering and wet kisses into each other. It’s a sweltering summer night, the central fire giving off light but also more heat. Nearly everyone is drenched in sweat, stripped down to as little as possible. 

“Oh, if I was that, we would have already left this tent and I would have seduced you out to the woods to have my way with you.” Nasir smirks, leaning in to trace his tongue over the shell of Agron’s ear, “But a little extra magic never hurt anyone, did it?”

“Play your game.” Agron groans, having to press his cheek to Nasir’s, hidden from the crowd for just a moment as his face heats and his cock throbs between his legs. “But do not let yourself get lost to the opinions of others. You are perfect exactly how you are.”

“Flatterer.” Nasir teases, leaning back to pull him into another long kiss. When they finally separate, Agron has to hide a hand under the table, pressing the heel to his aching cock. Nasir feigns innocence, draining his cup and calling for another. 

They sit together for nearly an hour like this, Nasir leaning back into Agron’s chest, sharing slow, wet kisses and full cups of wine. Agron feeds Nasir more fruit, watches the juices collect on his bottom lip before lapping them away. It feels too intimate, like drawn out foreplay, if it weren’t all happening before a large group of people. Neither seem to notice or mind, only being alerted to something going on when loud, drunken yelling breaks out.

There is a group of Gräuel sprawled in one corner, laughing loudly as they clash their goblets into one another. It’s hard to make out what they’re saying over the music, but it seems to amuse the crowd to no end. Every once in a while, they will look up at the throne and grimace, leaning in to talk to one another.

“Why don’t you just murder all of them?” Pietros hisses. He’s sitting on Nasir’s other side, moodily picking at a piece of bread. “I’m already tired of looking at them.” 

“He can’t. They’re entitled to be here by law.” Tove answers, leaning around Agron to talk to him. Duro blocks his view, rolling his eyes. He seems to share his brother’s opinion.

“We are entitled to be here by law. Not them.” Pietros snarls, lip curling over sharp fangs. 

“Regardless, they’re more likely to murder you two than be murdered.” Tove comments like it’s nothing, but the other four men all stop, turning sharply to look at him. 

“Is that-“ Pietros starts, voice soft and unsure.

“Hush, brother.” Nasir gently touches Pietros’ hand, smiling at him. “Come dance with me? I am tired of sitting here and I’m sure we can find some entertainment down there.”

Heat flares in Agron’s stomach as Nasir easily turns from him, standing from the cushions. The silver fabric of Nasir’s pants stretch taut over his ass, clinging against his sweaty skin. He barely gives Agron a backwards glance, a small smirk as he steps down onto the dirt floor and towards the group dancing. They’re been following the slow gait the musicians have been playing, more traditional steps, but when Nasir joins them, they immediately stop, bowing their heads in respect. 

Agron is too far away to hear him as Nasir leans in to talk to the violinist in the front, smiling pretty and easy. It’s not difficult to make out the shape of Nasir’s words though, watching closely as Nasir requests they play a ‘Nochelta’. It’s a complicated dance really, comprised of quick footwork and turns, stomps and claps to keep the beat – and a dance that Nasir came to easily and is excellent at. 

It’s not that fact that burns in Agron’s chest. It’s that a major part of the dance requires one partner’s hands to be placed on the other’s hips, to easy the transition from step to jump, bodies having to be pressed tight. The group of dancers works in quick lines that expand to circles and back, a spinning collection of fast work and joined hands. It’s not the easiest to learn, nor is it popular with the more traditional at court. Still, Nasir’s request won’t be denied, and Agron grits his teeth as he carefully selects his partner from the waiting crowd. 

He’s a nobleman’s son, a young lord named Titus with rolling fields to the west and a large estate of his own. It’s not for his title nor his land that Nasir has selected him though. Titus stands young and tall, broad in the chest with short blond hair cropped in spikes across his head – a warrior’s build dressed down to his subligaria and simple armor. He gracefully bows low at the waist, eyes downcast as Nasir stops before him, gently touching his shoulder. 

Turning to face the royal table, the group of dancers take position. Nasir has put himself in front, back to Titus and eyes lingering on Agron. It’s a dare, a standstill as Nasir bites his lip to hide a smirk as he raises his left hand. Titus takes it in his own, other resting on Nasir’s bare hip as he nervously glances towards the throne as well. It’s to no reason though as Agron drains his goblet, calling for another. He will let his husband play his game. 

The violin pierces the air, the notes quick and sharp as the other strings and drums join him. The dancers easily follow the song, quick steps that turn them towards one another with a loud clap. Agron watches as the group separates, Nasir and Pietros meeting in the middle to tap hands and turn, then return to their partners. Titus’ hand closes over where Agron knows are his own fingerprint bruises on Nasir’s hips and lifts, turning the both of them in a semicircle. 

When placed back on his feet, Nasir purposefully missteps, suddenly pressing his back into Titus’ chest, grinding slightly. He glances up at Agron as he does it, goading and sharp, a tease to see what reaction he can get out of the king. Agron burns with sharp rage, jealousy twisting in his chest especially when Titus says something and Nasir giggles, stepping away with a roll of his hips. It’s all part of Nasir’s game though as he laughs, letting the Lord behind him guide him into the next step sequence. 

“They toy with us.” Duro grumbles beside Agron, angrily chewing on his thumbnail. “Pietros knows I hate this dance.”

“You hate it because you can’t dance it.” Agron snaps, eyes unable to leave Nasir as he turns with a bright grin, facing Titus for the next leap. 

“You hate it because you can but you won’t.” Duro sneers back, clearly drunk by his bright cheeks. He’s watching Helio spin Pietros around, their easy friendship stemming from the Taurunt Prince’s hope that Pietros will one day be single again. 

Nasir’s laughter rings out over the room as he is lifted again and turned. Titus, to his credit, seems to be unable to decide if he’s allowed to touch Nasir’s bare skin or not. His palms keep skirting over his waist, eyes darting from Nasir to Agron, sure at any moment the king will call for his head. Nasir takes it from his control, reaches out with sure hands and tugs on Titus’ wrist, pressing his palms just above the three rings holding his pants together. Titus’ fingers are long enough they brush over Nasir’s tattoo, gentle in their caress on his back. 

“It’s not that I won’t. I’m the king. I am needed up here.” Agron reasons into his wine goblet, draining it and snapping for another. He burns hot, his throat flexing and choking, teeth tight. 

Spinning on his toes, Nasir flows back to Pietros again, only this time when their hands touch, a small spark echoes between their palms. It grabs the men’s attention in the corner, their conversation dulling as they move to watch the dancers. If Nasir notices their attention, he ignores it, turning to clap and then brace his hands on top of Titus’, allowing him to lift him in a short spin. 

“Agron,” Tove leans into his cousin’s side, his breath hot on his neck. “You’re always going to be the king. You’re always going to be needed up here. But that-“ Tove points to Nasir, fingertip trailing up and down. “Isn’t always going to look like that.”

“Shut up.” Agron snarls, eyes unable to leave Nasir. He laughs again, palms sliding from their place on the Lord’s shoulders down onto his chest, tracing the leather straps of the armor there. Agron knows this move, is intimately familiar with Nasir’s pretty face beaming up at him, probably saying something dirty and clever. It’s no wonder that Titus is flushed when Nasir turns away from him, glancing up at the royal table again before pressing his hands back to Nasir’s hips.

“I’m just saying.” Tove mutters, nudging Duro on the way back. “Nasir looks good, really fucking good, even after your three massive sons. He’s what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

“He’s twenty-four. Almost twenty-five.” Duro answers, grimacing when Agron’s elbow connects with his side. 

“See? You’re wasting it.” Tove laughs to himself, disbelieving and crash. “Guys that age, they’re basically made out of rubber. No matter which way they bend or stretch, they always snap back into place. Like a fucking vice in all the best places.”

“For fucks sake.” Duro grumbles, turning away from his cousin. “That’s your king.”

“No,” Tove lumbers up, his gaze still trained on the dance floor. “My king has to stay up at the royal table. Remember? That, my cousin, is a wasted opportunity.”

“A what?” Duro snaps his eyes up, angry. “My husband is out there too.”

“Oh, I very much know. And so does everyone watching.” Tove steps down off the platform. “Hopefully they all remember Nasir and Pietros are _oh so happily_ married.” And then Tove is gone, slipping into the crowd to get a better view.

Agron swallows his growls in his mouth, unable to fully shift enough to make them meaningful anyways. He’s had enough, watching Nasir’s lithe body twisting in the firelight, bronze and glinting with sweat and heat. It’s too much, too much skin and too much want and Agron has been hard practically all evening. 

It all accumulates to a snarling beast when Nasir purposefully turns too close though, his hands sliding against Titus’ bare shoulder, down to his waist and across a v cut. Titus freezes, then grins, and when Nasir pulls away, the line of his cock is visible in his subligaria. 

Placing his goblet with less grace than intended, Agron abruptly stands up.

The music cuts off, the dancers held in the air slowly being lowered to the floor by wide eyed partners. Nasir isn’t facing his way, but Agron can tell by the shifting of his shoulders that he can feel his gaze. He turns slowly, eyes bright and cheeks red, sweat pooling on his chest and throat. Nasir’s smirk only grows as Agron steps calm and collected across the room, the faint glint in his eye the only thing that gives him away.

“Fall to the side, Lord Titus.” Agron instructs, waving his hand. Nasir bites his bottom lip and ducks his head in a half attempt at a bow, practically trembling in anticipation. 

“Yes, your majesty. Apologies, your majesty.” Titus begins to back away, still bent over and Agron only spares him a glance to roll his eyes.

“Gather strength.” Agron’s rebuts is sharp, annoyed. “I am not going to execute you tonight.”

Titus seems relieved over the fact, going to join the crowd at the edge of the dance floor, welcomed with a few pats to the shoulder. 

He, and the others, watch closely as Agron reaches out, taking Nasir’s chin in his hand and forcing his gaze up. They stare at each other for a moment, the air tense and heated, before Agron slowly circles around. It’s with baited breath, the entire feast watching with unblinking eyes, as Agron finally settles behind. His grip is rough and unforgiving as he takes up palm on Nasir’s hips, jerking him back until their chest to back. 

“Continue.”

Agron’s command sends the musicians into motions, once more staring up the quick and sultry song. Though he had little interest in it before his marriage, Agron has been trained in all royal dances. It’s made easier with a partner like Nasir, who easily follows steps, confident and sure on his feet. 

With the first lift, Nasir braces one hand on Agron’s wrist and the other he raises, a flourish that is completely his own, trailing his fingers along Agron’s neck. The crowd is enraptured by them, voices and conversation falling quiet as they watch the two royals together. They too, have not seen Agron dance in a long time. Usually Nasir, if he is able to dance, partners with Pietros or Duro, sometimes even Spartacus. To see the kings together is a rare sight. 

“You spoil me.” Nasir gasps as Agron sets him back on his feet, the pair turning to go through the next step sequences. 

“You consider this spoiling? When you taunt and entice me to react to you?” Agron asks, stepping forward to take Pietros’ hand and turn him, the two kings coming together as couple once more.

“Was I? I hadn’t noticed.” Nasir grins, turning to face Agron. The next part is a series of steps with each of them holding onto each other’s shoulder with one hand, the other out straight. 

“You forget, little snake, that if I wanted to, I could throw you to the dirt and have my way with you right now.” Agron leans in, breathes the words hot into his ear. They’re too drunk for this conversation, too surrounded on all sides by both friends and enemies.

“And you forget, my love,” Nasir turns then, pressing the length of his body against Agron’s front, “I have never stopped you before.”

Agron burns with the knowledge that this is true, In the five years they’ve been married, the pair have broken many conventional practices by fucking everywhere they can. In fact, Agron remembers exactly where in this tent he has had his hands on Nasir. Still, he can’t ignore the dark gazes of their newest guests as they watch the pair complete the dance. 

The Gräuel have been an after thought to Agron. A memory that he has never really spent much lingering on. They were always loyal to Gerulf, but in a way that didn’t bother Agron. He didn’t believe what they did, couldn’t fathom a world where their kind was the first and only. How could he when Alptra was made up of all sorts of creatures? Was Spartacus a worse person than Agron because he was a lion and not a wolf?

Now though, their presence draws into a focus an entirely different danger. What Tove implied is completely possible. Spartacus had told Agron the Gräuel had a reputation for violence and ruthlessness. There is no order to their attacks, no sense to the way they feast on those who would stand in their path. What if they acted on impulse? Was Nasir and Pietros, and by extension, the princes’ lives in danger? Would the Gräuel really be so bold to try an assassination this close to the Wolf Moon?

“Agron?” Nasir is panting, his hands resting on his husband’s heaving chest. Around them, the dancing has stopped to take a breath, gulping wine and making pleasant conversation. They are wise enough not to approach the royals though, mingling around them.

“Hm?” Agron snaps back into attention, once more cursing his inability to use his wolf senses. It’s an itch he can’t scratch, to use instinct to feel out the room, to listen and know what the others around them saying. 

“What is it?” Nasir asks, glancing around but inevitably coming back to the king. “What’s wrong?”

And suddenly, Agron wants to be away, far from this room and this sweltering heat. He doesn’t like Roul and his men’s’ eyes on them., assessing and watching. Nasir has every right to stand up for himself, to show who he is and celebrate it, but it’s dangerous now. To taunt a foe they know nothing about. Agron curses his impulsiveness, furious that Spartacus didn’t do more to warn Nasir what his actions might cause. 

“Come on.” 

His grip latches onto Nasir’s wrist, tugging him into motion. Nasir barely has time to say his goodbye to Pietros before the king is dragging him into the night air, ignoring the guards announcement of their departure. They’re nearly six tent clusters over before Nasir seems to find his voice. 

“What are you doing? What’s wrong?” He yanks out of Agron’s grip, coming to a stop outside of a large tent’s doorway. It’s a bakery from the sign over the door. 

“You’re impulsive. That’s what’s wrong.” Agron reaches out again, once more gripping Nasir’s hand in his and pulling. Behind them, at least eight guards have followed – their normal amount for protection. Agron hates them too. 

“If this is about the dance, I did nothing wrong.” Nasir snips, affronted by the implication. “I’m allowed to dance. I don’t need your permission.”

“It’s not about the dance. Or that asshole you let put his hands all over you.” Agron snarls, pulling them around the corner. Their royal tent is further out, secluded for privacy and protection. Agron can feel the weight of the wine tugging on him, making his gaze blurry and unsure. Cursing himself, he continues forward, guiding a staggering Nasir behind him. 

“Agron! Do not pull me around as if I were a child!” Nasir slurs a little on his words, feet stumbling from both Agron’s hands and the wine heavy on his tongue. 

He yanks away again, this time darting around the king and dashing forward. It’s only a dozen steps though when Agron catches him, his palms skidding on Nasir’s hips and yanking him back. They collide together, Nasir nearly losing his footing from the weight suddenly slamming into his back. He bends over, having to brace a hand on his thigh to steady himself.

“You are a child.” Agron hisses, his mouth warm on Nasir’s throat. “Reckless and impulsive. Presenting yourself for them to ogle, to fucking judge you. Like there aren’t enemies all around us.”

“Fuck you.” Nasir pants, his necklaces swinging before him. “They judge me regardless of what I’m fucking wearing or who I dance with.”

“You call that dancing?” Agron shakes Nasir a little. “Pressing yourself against that fuck, half naked before all of the court?”

“I was wearing the same the first time I met you.” Nasir hisses, shoving his shoulder into Agron’s. “And look where that got us?”

Agron growls at that, gripping his fingers into the sharp curve of Nasir’s side, shoving him forward. They make it closer to their tent, the surrounding ones thinning out. The royal tent stands alone, on a small gathering of land surrounded by flaming torches and a small detail of guards. The rest of their house a few dozen yards away – close enough if they are needed but far enough away for privacy. 

“You’re jealous?” Nasir laughs, breathless as he looks over his shoulder. “Is this what this is about?”

“No.” Agron watches a bead of sweat on Nasir’s throat, suddenly leaning forward to bite it. He sucks a mark there, a barely there bruise, before pulling back. “All of this is mine.” 

His hand reaches between Nasir’s legs, gripping tight. Nasir bends at the waist from the sudden pressure, gasping high and loud in the still night sky. It’s so sudden he feels his knees go weak with it, trying to curl away from the sensation only pressing himself back into the other man’s body. Agron seems to remember suddenly there are guards behind them, more than half a dozen men all watching the kings drunkenly fall over each other. 

“You’re too dangerous.” Agron pants into Nasir’s ear, pushing them forward. “You have no idea what might happen, what they could do to you.”

“Agron,” Nasir turns, his sweat damp cheek sliding against Agron’s as he turns into his neck. “I haven’t forgotten what they already have.”

Biting his bottom lip until he tastes blood, Agron shoves his feet forward until he gets them both moving. He feels like he’s going to choke, chest tight as he holds his husband against him. It feels like every shadow around them is a threat, a monster in the dark that Agron can’t see, can’t sense. They collapse inside the doorway of their tent, the fire burning low so everything looks obscure. Diona is in the corner, lingering on a low chair at the beginning of the hall leading into the princes’ rooms. 

“Go.” 

Agron chokes the command out, watching the woman scurry from her position in fear. His mouth full of his own blood and sweat dripping down his back, damp and barely being able to draw in a humid breath. There is no reprieve, even in the dim light of their tent. He is restless, erratic, while his hands skid over Nasir’s body. He can’t figure out if he wants to grab him, run his hands over Nasir’s sticky skin or push him away, too afraid to touch. The wine has made him too warm, too trapped in his skin. 

Stepping slowly away from him, Nasir looks different in the dark. Closer to the god that he is. He’s shimmering in the deep crimson embers of the fire, jewelry like beaten gold, slick and heavy against his heaving chest. There are red marks on his neck, his cheeks flushed, eyes gleaming as metallic scales shimmer over one shoulder. While Agron stands before him mortal, stripped of everything, Nasir draws a storm with barely a glance in his direction. 

“Speak or act, my king.” Nasir says slowly, reaching up to pull his crown from his head. Behind him, a candle flickers into life. “Your choice.”

Agron doesn’t realize it until Nasir is in his arms that he’s moved. He picks the smaller up with desperate hands, arms encircling his waist, gripping and tugging. They taste like wine, smell like sweat, feel too hot for the night sky. There is nothing that can erase this though, a relic that is higher than all others. Agron slams them into the tent pole, holds them against the wood support and he devours. 

There has always been a hunger deep inside Agron, a longing that seemed to get stronger the older he grew. It tears him up, a gaping hole that needs to be filled. Nasir is the spring, the lava that overflows him, a never-ending rush of emotion and heat and desire. Agron has never wanted, has never been given, so much all at once. 

“Fuck!” Nasir hisses, his nails sharp on Agron’s back. It only manages to produce a low groan from him, Agron biting his pleasure into Nasir’s neck in a series of nips and sucks that will purple with the skin. Retaliating, Nasir digs his fingers in tight to the top of Agron’s shoulders and drags down. The air fills with the scent of blood, but neither man manages to care, too consumed with each other. 

Around them, candles flicker into light, illuminating the tent. The flames stay low, playing shadows on the long canvas sides, shimmering on the draped gauze curtains. There are soft cloth rugs on the floor, crimson pillows and decadent blankets to offer comfort and finery. It’s ignored though, dull and lifeless as the two try and press closer together. 

Agron can’t get his fingers into Nasir’s hair when it’s up like this, so instead he focuses his attention on running his hand just under the sides of Nasir’s pants. The fabric is damp, sweat slick from Nasir’s rapid dancing, and it sticks to him as Agron caresses over the cut of his thighs, his smooth knees, tracing his hip as a path when he finally reaches a finger over the smooth line of Nasir’s cock. 

“These pants,” Agron groans, frustrated as his fingers slip over the metal hoops on the side. “How have I never seen you in these pants?”

“I don’t know.” Nasir guides his hands into Agron’s hair, tugging. “Maybe I only wear them when I want to impress young lords.”

“Oh yeah?” Agron smirks, raising a brow. His palms are so warm when they slide out of Nasir’s pants, inching higher. “You want to go find him?”

“No.” Wrapping his arms tight around Agron’s shoulders, Nasir moans low when Agron smacks his ass, gripping the hot skin. “You know who I put these pants on for.”

“Tell me.” Agron smacks him again, hears Nasir bite his lip to hold back his whimper. “Tell me, Nasir.”

“You. I put them on for you.” Nasir gasps, panted breaths along Agron’s jaw when he slides a kiss there. “And I’ll only take them off for you too.”

Stepping back, Agron turns them slowly, taking his time as he steps around the firepit and towards their bed. This is not the first time he’s done this, and yet every time Nasir gets this wide eyed stare, eyes tracking all over the thick cut of Agron’s arms, hands unable to settle. The servants have been kind enough to draw the curtains, and for that both are grateful, as Agron easily tosses Nasir back onto the furs. He bounces a little, pressing a hand sharply to his mouth to stop from groaning. The boys are right down the hall sleeping. 

Kneeling on the foot of the bed, Agron watches Nasir closely. His cheeks are flushed, hair ruffled and mouth bruised. It still catches Agron off guard sometimes how much he loves the man before him. He’s attractive in so many ways that expand beyond physical, but now, when Agron is drunk and hard, it’s impossible not to notice all the outside attributes. Like how Nasir’s chest looks heaving, covered in long, heavy necklaces, the smooth lines of his thighs parted slightly, the curve of his ass when he rolls over. 

Agron is on him in an instant, sliding into the cradle of Nasir's legs, a hand on the back of his throat. They grind against one another, Nasir winding his hips back in sharp figure eights that drive Agron insane. He's so hard he can feel himself leaking, the subligaria too tight, fabric too rough. Agron has to reach down, wrap his fist around the base and try to relieve some pressure. 

Arching up, Nasir's hands scramble over his throat, curling fingers over the clasps on his necklaces. He tries to undo them, fingers either too numb or too uncoordinated to complete the task. 

"Agron, help me."

To his credit, Agron does try to help him. He can't fucking see or focus though, too drunk and too distracted by a bead of sweat sliding down Nasir's spine. Instead, Agron grips the metal in a tight fist, yanking it sharply away from Nasir's chest. The strands fall around them, chains snapped and pearls rolling across the blankets and onto the floor. It frees Nasir from the weight of it, back arching sharply as he cranes his head for a kiss. 

They lose themselves for a moment, kissing slow and open as Agron leaves goosebumps on Nasir's skin from his fingertips tracing his ribs. He walks his hands along them, eases over the smooth plane of Nasir's stomach, down further onto the soft waistband of his pants. He could stay like this forever, holding Nasir in his arms. 

"Nasir," Agron whispers, his knuckles brushing over Nasir's jaw. It’s almost a plea, but Agron isn’t sure what he’s begging for. 

Turning around, Nasir trails short, wet kisses down Agron's chest, lapping a tease of a tongue on his abs. It leaves little pink marks on Agron’s skin, a trail of love bites that will fade by the morning. When he reaches lower, Nasir sinks his teeth into the knot at Agron's hip, tugging until the fabric gives. It's a dirty trick, something that made Agron lose his mind the first time Nasir did it. It still has the same effect, Agron groaning as Nasir's clever fingers strip him, tossing the fabric off the edge of the bed. 

"Lay down." Nasir murmurs, eying Agron's cock where it stands proud and red between his legs. There is a pearl of precome clinging to the tip, and Nasir leans down when Agron is settled to lap it off. 

“Fuck Nasir.” Agron groans, having to reach his arms above his head so he won’t touch. He knows that Nasir likes to play when he first starts, licks and sucks and teases until Agron is hard and close and too fucking hot to fucking handle it. 

He is a little obsessed with the view when Nasir sucks him off like this. He's on his knees between Agron's, back arched sharp, the line of his ass looking like a rounded heart. Nasir is lucky to have his hair up, dark eyes staring at Agron when he takes the tip into his mouth, suckling slowly and then pulling away with a slick pop. Nasir’s grin is all self satisfaction, licking slowly over his bottom lip before lowering back down. He uses his hand on what he can't fit in his mouth, one stacked on top of another.

Nasir drags his tongue slowly from root to tip, sloppy and drunk and too turned on for finesse. He likes showing off, turned on with Agron laid out before him. Nasir almost feels in control, mesmerized at the flexing of Agron’s abs every time his cock hits the back of Nasir’s throat.

Agron can’t keep his eyes open, tries to focus on the curls at Nasir’s cheeks, the way he looks so wrecked on his knees. Nasir’s own cock is heavy and dark against the pale fabric of his pants, hanging to tent the front. He doesn’t see to notice as he pulls off with a slick grin, stroking Agron is quick strips.

‘You’re dripping everywhere,” Nasir grins, his mouth bruised and red.

“Look what you’re doing to me.” Agron can barely fucking breathe, chest heaving. 

“Oh? This?” Nasir asks innocently, sliding down the bed. He does it slow and teasing, sucking kisses at the base and then quickly deep throating Agron, humming loudly. It’s fast and rough, and Agron has to grip the pillows above his head and close his eyes to keep from coming when Nasir cups Agron’s balls and swallows around him. 

“I’m going to come.” Agron’s voice is gravel, arching his back when Nasir hums again. 

“Not yet, my king.”

Finally getting some reprieve, Agron watches Nasir pull back, settling on his heels once more before his hands busy themselves at his side. He struggles, trying to remember how the claps work, before Nasir is separating the three gold rings and his pants come apart, leaving him in a nothing but a thin gold chain around his waist. 

“Oil?” He motions next to Agron, the small vial there mostly empty and laying on his side.

“Let me?” Agron sits up, pouring the liquid over his fingers at Nasir’s nod. 

They rearrange so Nasir is straddling Agron’s lap, face to face with their noses barely brushing. It gives Agron the perfect view of Nasir’s eyelashes fluttering at the first press of his finger inside him. Nasir’s mouth falling open on a slow exhale, his skin pink on his cheeks and down his neck. Agron gets to swallow the first moan, bites at Nasir’s bottom lip and sooths the sting as he replaces one finger with two. 

There is something that Agron is supposed to be remembering. It’s there in the back of his mind, _something_ , but he can’t focus enough on it to recall. Instead, he’s captivated by Nasir rocking onto his fingers, sweaty and needy, clinging to Agron’s shoulders. It’s between one breath and the next that Agron pulls out, flicking his tongue over Nasir’s lips in a tease before kissing him once more. 

Nasir loves this position. Everything works in his favor. Agron’s arms encircle his waist, heavy and warm as he holds him snug. Gravity helps Nasir sink onto Agron’s cock, his weight making him slide down faster than on his back. When he’s fully seated, Nasir has to bury his face in Agron’s chest, hiding his whimpers and the sudden pressure that winds up his spine. 

“Easy,” Agron whispers in Nasir’s ear. “Easy baby.”

“More.” Nasir slurs a kiss over Agron’s jaw. “I need more.”

“Take it.” 

With sweat slick hands, Nasir braces his palms on Agron’s shoulders, letting him ground him as he rises up and falls back down. It’s slow and clumsy, both too interested in kissing than setting up a proper rhythm. Agron can’t catch his breath, tongue in Nasir’s mouth, cock buried inside him, surrounded by Nasir’s smooth thighs and his arms. There is a bracelet on his forearm that is pressing an impressing of snake into Agron’s chest, right above the snake tattoo he has for Nasir, and it’s a metaphor and a symbol so perfect. 

With greedy hands, Agron grips Nasir’s ass and helps lift him, commanding his movements. Nasir relaxes into it, allows Agron’s weight and his strength to manhandle him into some semblance of a pattern. He thrusts up, cock hot and so long inside of Nasir, he chokes every time. The pressure is suffocating, coiling up from Nasir’s spine into his groin, skin on fire. There is no reprieve from it, Agron’s stubble burning on his jaw, his kiss a brand over Nasir’s neck, his mouth robbing Nasir of breath. It’s consuming, a feast of sensation that never ends. 

Around them, candles flicker high, casting the tent into a play of shadows and light. Nasir is glowing with gold scales down his chest, the small diamonds turning bronze and then a shimmering white as he moves. The older he gets, the more Nasir is learning to control his magic. It all comes unraveled when he’s with Agron like this though, too lost in the pleasure to try and regulate the bursts of powers exploding inside him. 

He manages to lean back from Agron’s chest, hands behind him on Agron’s knees. Flexing his abs, Nasir raises up and then drops down, head tossed back. Nasir is gasping as he does it, wants to see everything even as he’s shaking. Agron is flushed everywhere, chest blotchy and red as he grips Nasir’s hips until his knuckles turn white. They’re both sweat slick, skidding against each other and apart, muscles flexed tight and defined. 

Nasir is trying so hard to last but his cock is leaking everywhere and Agron won’t stop staring at him, gaze so intense Nasir can’t catch his breath. He wants to look away, to hide from that knowing grin, but every time he tries, Agron shifts harder into his prostate and Nasir can’t stop crying into Agron’s mouth. 

Hand sliding down the center of Nasir’s chest, Agron grins slow, his palm wrapping around his cock. He can tell Nasir is close, better at control but unable to last. It’s been too good, too much teasing and too much skin all evening. If he was more sober, Agron would grip Nasir’s base and make him wait. He could draw this out, listen to Nasir’s deep moans turn high, frantic as pleasure burns down his spine. But he wants to see Nasir fall apart. He wants to see the shine of pleasure all over him, listen to his cries being smothered in Agron’s skin. His nails sharp on Agron’s chest, his back, his thighs. 

“You going to come for me?” Agron prompts, teasing as he strips Nasir’s cock in time with his thrusts. 

“Yes,” Nasir gasps, tossing his head back. “Fuck, please. Don’t stop.”

It’s all the warning either of them get. With a cry, Nasir suddenly curls forward, hands scrambling on Agron’s already abused back. Cock twitching between them, Nasir stripes his own stomach and then Agron’s, mouth lax and panting as he tries to kiss Agron. It’s more of a shared breath, both of them staring at one another. With his orgasm, Nasir clamps down, his body turning into a vice as the flames around them burst up and then out. 

Hands in his hair, tugging him forward, Agron clamps his teeth into Nasir’s neck. It smothers his own shout, his gasps of pleasure as he thrusts over and over. His orgasm rips through him, body wanting to shift but unable to, liquid fire through his veins. He’s mortal and strung out, too much power with no where to go as he lifts off the bed, heels digging in. Nasir is so good in his arms, clinging tight and taking it, whimpering as Agron comes down. 

They sit like that for a few moments, too deep in ecstasy to separate. Nasir rests his cheek on Agron’s shoulder, staring out with blank eyes to where the fire pit is crackling out. The embers are the only light now in the tent, the walls so dark. Agron is trailing his fingers up and down Nasir’s spine, needing to pull out but being unable to. He just wants to stay like this forever. 

The night seems to suddenly occur to him, the inky illusion of the tent. Without his wolf powers, Agron can’t see in the dark. He’s sure the guards at the door have been put into position, but anything could be lingering – waiting to attack just beyond the curtains. It twists sharply in his stomach, curling an arm around Nasir’s waist as he gets the urge to suddenly stalk around the room, to check. 

“Can you light the fire?” Agron whispers after a while, palms skidding over Nasir’s thighs. 

Nasir makes an uncommitted noise, his fingers leaving their sticky path on Agron’s neck to wave them towards the center of the tent. It takes more effort than it should, but the wood catches in a slow burn before the room is illuminated once more. Nasir counts it as a surprise considering that he can’t feel his own body, still floating in shivers of pleasure. 

Feeling better now that he can see, Agron gently trails soft kisses over Nasir’s shoulders, down onto his chest. He doesn’t rush it, just tasting skin really, worshipping the man who holds his entire heart in his hand. Nasir gasps with the gentle presses, caressing his fingers through Agron’s short hair. 

“I love you.” Agron whispers, pressing another kiss to his jaw. “Fuck, Nasir, I mean it so much.”

“And I love you.” Nasir holds Agron’s hand in his own, kisses across his knuckles.

Agron is so careful, gentle when he wraps his arms around Nasir’s waist and lifts slow. It’s torture for both of them, Agron slipping free and Nasir suddenly empty, whimpering at the loss. He lays him down on his back, rests Nasir’s head back into the soft pillows, positions him easily with one leg curled up on the other. He leaves him with a slow kiss, Agron lingering as if he doesn’t want to be separated from Nasir – even for a moment. Staggering to the table in the corner, Agron wets a rag and brings it back, legs shaking. 

“I could look at you like that all day.” Nasir murmurs, gaze warm and slow as his tracks over Agron’s bare skin. 

It hits Agron all at once, the strung out, half lidded gaze, the sweat slick skin, the mess of curls around Nasir’s face. Agron’s cock twitches between his legs, already trying to get interested again. When he slides back on the bed, Nasir grins slow and lazy, spreading his legs for him. Agron is a man starved, leaving the cloth to the side as he bows down. 

There is something dirty and secretive and worshipful when Agron cleans him up like this, claiming once more where Nasir allows Agron to be. It’s sacred, holy, considering that one of the most powerful beings in the world allows Agron to be with him. Opens up and lets Agron inside, lets him claim and love and pleasure every piece of Nasir that he can reach. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Nasir moans, head tossed back against the pillows, fingers tugging on Agron’s hair. “Oh fuck, Agron, please.”

Because he can and because he can’t stop, Agron continues. He curls his tongue against Nasir’s walls, uses his hands to hold his thighs open. And because he is a greedy king, Agron doesn’t stop. He flicks against the red and sore pucker of Nasir, tastes and tastes and feasts until he feels Nasir begin to tremble. 

The second isn’t as wet as the first, but if anything, it’s more intense. Nasir smothers his cries and his tears into his forearm, trying to muffle the desperate pleas. And when Agron is done cleaning up that mess too, he tastes salt on Nasir’s tongue. He could keep going if it weren’t for Nasir’s desperate hands on him, tugging him close. 

They roll over, Agron on his back with Nasir plastered along his side, head on his shoulder. It’s a position they usually settle in, Nasir’s fingers trailing down Agron’s stomach over and over again, Agron’s in his hair. They’re not even able to catch their breath, trying, but too busy sharing kisses to get the full effect. 

“Holy fuck,” Nasir finally gasps, collapsing back against Agron. “I don’t know what I did to deserve that, but I’ll keep doing it.”

“You always deserve it.” Agron murmurs, lapping a droplet of sweat from Nasir’s jaw. “I like giving you pleasure. I get off by getting you off.”

“Really?” Nasir grins wide. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m serious.” Agron whispers. He’s back lit and bronze, always has to lay between Nasir and the door. “The more turned on you get, the more desperate, the more I do to you, the better it is for me.”

“I know. It just wasn’t expected at first.” Nasir shrugs, drunk and honest. He doesn’t catch the flicker in Agron’s expression. “I’m definitely not complaining though.”

“Better not be.” Agron growls, leaning in to kiss Nasir again. 

“Are you still mad at me?” Nasir asks after a moment, nuzzling his nose against Agron’s. Agron does it back, losing themselves for a moment as Agron tilts his head up, capturing Nasir’s mouth in a slow, open kiss. 

“I was never mad at you.” Agron whispers back, his hands in Nasir’s hair. “It’s not safe here, right now. I want you safe, Nasir. I only want you safe.”

“I’m safe right now.” Nasir pulls back, stares up at Agron with warm, fond eyes. “No one can get me if you are here.”

“Please,” Agron kisses Nasir’s forehead gently, “please just be careful. I can’t lose you again.”

“Hey,” Nasir pulls back, eyes tracking over Agron’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, baby.” Agron shakes his head, won’t meet Nasir’s eyes as he kisses his throat again. “I’m fine. It’s okay.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” Nasir vows, pets his hand over Agron’s chest. 

“I would slay all,” Agron holds Nasir’s chin in his hand, makes him meet his eyes. “ _all_ that would attempt to take you from my arms.”

Nasir has no response, caught off guard by how intense Agron says the words. Instead, he leans in and kisses him, slow and gentle, trying to translate how full his heart suddenly is. There is so much that they have already lived through, and Nasir cannot imagine a single day in his future without his husband. 

They’re both getting exhausted and sloppy, kisses dissolving into slow presses until Nasir is barely responding. He hums when Agron settles, nuzzling into chest. Agron traces a finger over his cheek, listens to his breath slowly settling. It’s when he knows Nasir is asleep that Agron reaches above them to check that the dagger is still under his pillow. There is a sword beside their bed on the floor, just in case. 

\- - - 

It's still dark out, the sun a ghost along the horizon. The dark before the Wolf Moon is a day of prayer and reflection. The whole city will spend most of it enclosed in their homes or in the temple, praying and offering sacrifices to the gods. It's a slow start, a quiet morning with the mist rolling in from the hills. The rain has come early, drenching the ground and the walls of the tents, the humidity dropping to almost chilly. 

Spartacus hates this part of his role. He doesn't like having to interrupt the kings when they're sleeping, resting safe within their tent. Too many times Spartacus has had to enter into their room, pull Agron from between Nasir's warm arms, force him to make some decision or go to some meeting. Spartacus would much rather be in bed himself, listening to Mira's breath and the soft snores of their son. 

He's surprised when the guards allow him entry that Agron is actually awake. He's sitting by the fire, posture filling the chair with legs spread and arms resting along the curved sides. He looks very much the king, royalty perched on his throne, staring straight ahead. A sword lays at his feet, a dagger across his knee. It isn't until Spartacus walks towards him that he sees what Agron is staring at. 

Spartacus instantly wants to avert his eyes, guilt and shame burning through him when he's unable to. There are chains all over the floor, jewels and pearls in the dirt. A sliver of milky white fabric, a hint of gold, is spilling over the edge of the bed. Peaking out from under a pillow, the snake head of a dagger handle sits ready. Nasir is in the middle of all of it, laid on his stomach, hands tucked neatly under his head. He's kicked the blankets off enough that they dip on him, the whole expanse of his back and part of his ass and thigh exposed. Spartacus, though with mortal eyes, can see the shimmer of a gold chain around his waist, his hair sprawled beside him, half covering his face. 

This room, this bed, reminds Spartacus of the temples in Galena. Where statues of gods reside in marble, billowing curtains around them, a bounty of sacrifices at their feet. Spartacus has seen men become obsessed within these rooms, praying for hours and days and lifetimes for the hope of favor. When he turns to glance at Agron, he can almost see the same look in his friend's eyes, haunted and yearning. 

"Agron." Spartacus murmurs, afraid to talk too loud. In this tent, in this early hour, he is not the hand of the king. He is Agron's best friend, his brother. 

"I could spend a lifetime trying to make it up to him." Agron's voice is deep, gravel, "and yet fail to undo all this land has done to him."

"Nasir holds no fault with you." Spartacus gently places his hand on Agron's shoulder. "You both have paid great price to be here."

On the bed, a stripe of gold dances over Nasir's spine and seems to absorbed by his tattoo, the ink glimmering. Agron shifts when Nasir does, eyes unblinking when Nasir murmurs, face flinching in his dream. He settles with a hand in the free space between him and the edge of the bed - a space that is clearly meant to hold Agron. 

"How did I earn this? What have I done in my life to deserve this?" Agron whispers, wistful and dark. "I never thought- I could never imagine-"

"I know." Spartacus can't help but grin. For so long, it seemed that Agron was going to be all Gerulf wanted, that his path was set. And then suddenly, like a comet across the night sky, Nasir burst into light - changing everything. Spartacus hadn't even realized Agron had been waiting for a lifetime for him. 

"Agron, did you sleep?" Spartacus asks, noticing the dark circles near Agron's eyes. "At all?" 

"Yes, a little." Agron doesn't turn away from his husband, saying the next words on an exhale. "Just tell me, Spartacus. I know something bad is happening."

Spartacus considers it, swallows a few times. He does come with news, bad news at that, but it seems so unfair to say it. If anything, Spartacus would rather send Agron back to bed. He would linger long enough to watch Nasir wrap himself around his husband, to soothe him with warm skin and comfort, before returning to his own bed. 

"Roul wants to offer one of his pack as the moon." Spartacus says softly, watching Agron's profile. "To encourage the people to return to the more traditional approach. They want an Alptraum representation. And they may have some backing."

"I don't care what they want." Agron shrugs, raising his fist to his mouth in concentration. "Who the fuck are they?"

"No one. No one important. But they could start some talk." Spartacus explains, hinting at the potential problem. With half their army leaving to go help Saxa, they are left venerable. "I suggest we just keep going as normal. We will go to the temple today. You will be anointed, present Nasir. It's fine."

“Does Roul think that I’m going to remove my consort for some random half breed?” Agron scoffs, rolling his eyes. “They hold no position in court. If anything, they’re a radical cult based around bias and a status they will never have.”

“We know that. But people often lose themselves to bias and to prejudice.” Spartacus sighs, hating it. He's tired of this argument. So fucking tired. “It’s not new here. Your father helped grow that culture.”

Shifting, Agron slowly inhales, his fists clenching. He considers his options, the rage that burns through him. In less than a day, Agron will be thrumming once more with power and magic. Let Roul try and attack then, his hatred destroyed under Agron's hands. But now, he still needs to play nice – to see if he can’t soothe the threat early. 

"They are foolish." Spartacus tries to comfort, to offer some sort of hope. "They under estimate who Nasir is."

"I don't want him fighting this battle." Agron snarls, clenching his teeth tight. "I want him safe and removed. I should have just sent him and the boys to the villa when we got news of the fighting up north."

"I wasn't talking about his magic." Spartacus flexes his fingers on Agron's shoulder. "I meant the position he holds for you. They only see a consort."

"There is nothing," Agron turns suddenly, staring up at Spartacus with wide eyes, " _nothing_ I wouldn't do for him." 

"I know." Spartacus taps his fist solemnly to his shoulder. "And I am beside you." 

 

\- - - 

 

The temple of Caelestis is technically the only permanent structure in the royal Alptraum summer lands. Although the tents get rolled up, their poles being left for the season, the temple on the other hand is a huge building made of polished stone. It’s gray walls are reminiscent of Galena, shimmering silver when the sun is high. Today, they are pewter under the rain, the tall steeple topped with a crescent looming among low clouds. It’s so large in fact that when the sun is behind it, it casts a shadow over a large section of the tents below it. 

Inside, the halls are decked out in finery – a fortress prepared for both worship and warm. Long halls with arched doorways line the buildings interior. The sanctuary is a dazzling white, the stone floor polished marble with deep wooden pews that line the nave. Each row is decorated with a collection of indigo and silver flowers, perfumed cones spilling inscene into the air. The smoke billows in thin lines up to the arched ceiling, a staggering hundred and fifty feet, crystal chandeliers hanging decorative wooden beams. 

With the heavy rains, the stained glass is not as vibrant, but the scenes depicted on them are unforgettable. It shows the creation of the Alptraum people, from Caelestis decent to Earth to the first man turned wolf. There are other scenes too, more violent, stories from a mythology embedded so deeply in the culture that they are taken as facts. 

The sanctuary is already half full when the royal entourage enters, the sound of horns announcing them. The familiar faces of the nobility and the court turn to watch, whispers and conversations echoing around the high ceiling. It's not like it was before, not like the first time when Nasir stood here chained to Castus, head down and ashamed. Instead, he holds his head high, arm wrapped through Agron's.

Although Nasir plays a very small role in the whole production and ritual of today, he still has been dressed as the representation of the moon. It’s an outfit comprised of white, glittery straps crisscrossing over his chest, pants loose and open. A bouquet of white flowers have been woven one by one into his long hair. Even is cloak, the fabric sheer and light, depicts the dark blue of the night sky and a scattering of stars. 

Agron, for his role, has been dressed simply. He's adorned in the traditional Alptra armor, the straps of leather and wolf coins dazzling the front. A short cap of wolf fur has been attached to his shoulders, the fur magnificently white and held in place by sapphire moon clips. 

The three princes have been dressed similarly, though Kieran and Sepp's armor is made from soft, supple leather and short boots, their cloaks of gray fur. Malik is the replica of Agron, down to the mini version of his horned crown on his head. Nasir is not fond of the small sword clasped at his side.

"I have to go get prepared with Duro and Spartacus." Agron murmurs. He's holding Kieran on his hip, passing the babe over with a gentle kiss to the top of his head. 

"Okay." Nasir cranes his head up, letting Agron kiss him too. He is slow to pull back, grinning knowing and soft up at Agron. He's never more happy then when all five of them are together.

"Daddy, come on." Malik has an arm wrapped around Agron's leg, the other taken up by Sepp, but he's already pouting. "Are you not coming in with us?"

"I'll see you later, remember? I have to do some things up front first and then I'll come sit with you." Agron brushes a hand over each of their heads, straightening their small crowns. "Be good for Baba, okay? It's important we all are on our best behavior."

"I'll be good. I'll be good!" Sepp and Malik chorus together. It seems to relieve any temper tantrum that could have formed, the older boys releasing their father. 

"Good luck." Nasir murmurs, accepting one more lingering kiss from Agron. There is a knowing look there, the pleasure of knowing more intimate details of each other, before Agron has to be led away with Barca and Auctus.

There are so many eyes on them, familiar and not, and Sepp lingers awkwardly at Nasir's hip, tugging on his cloak. Malik, surprisingly, faces the congregation with a steely glare, standing tall and proud. 

"Baba," Sepp whimpers, pressing his face into Nasir's thigh. 

“It’s okay. Take Malik’s hand.” Nasir soothes, pausing at the beginning of the long aisle. “We will walk down together and sit, remember?”

It’s a slow procession, walking with two small children, having to pause and bow his head every once in a while to prominent officials and emissaries. Nasir finally reaches the front section, breathing a sigh of relief when he sees Pietros, Naevia, and Mira all waiting for them. Crixus is on the very end, both for protection and for his status. 

“Someone looks a little tired.” Naevia teases, watching as Nasir slowly sits down, wincing. The wooden bench under him is unforgiving on his sore body, Nasir shifting around until he can relieve some of the weight off his lower spine.

“We had a late night.” Nasir doesn’t meet her eye, handing Kieran over to Mira when he reaches for her. Sepp and Malik are thankfully sitting further down, sandwiched between Pietros and the wall.

“Oh, did you?” Mira shares a look with Naevia and then Pietros, raising a brow. “Did it have anything to do with the way Agron dragged you out of the feast room last night?”

Nasir can feel the flush suddenly take over his face, the pink sliding down onto his neck. “He didn’t drag me.”

“Oh yes he did.” Naevia lets her gaze drag over Nasir, the awkward way he’s sitting, legs crossed with hands folded in his lap. “Quite the little show you put on. I think Lord Titus fell in love last night. I heard him singing your praises this morning at breakfast.”

“Stop.” Nasir rolls his eyes. “Don’t let people hear you say that.”

“Not trying to upgrade? Get a younger man in your bed?” Mira nudges Nasir, stifling her laughter in Kieran’s hair. “The scandal.”

“Hardly.” Smoothing his cloak around him, Nasir lets his eyes track over the large altar before him, trying to ignore his friends’ leers. “I could barely get out of bed this morning. I’m so fucking sore.”

“Do you want me to fetch you a pillow?” Naevia asks gracefully. Then dissolves into quiet laughter with Mira, tossing their heads back.

“If anything, you lucked out.” Pietros leans over Mira’s lap. “You missed Duro and Tove getting into a fist fight.”

“What?” Nasir turns his head sharply, brows raised. “When did this happen?”

“Oh, a little after the two of you left.” Pietros rubs a hand over his face. “The whole thing was ridiculous and embarrassing. I’m not talking to either of them.”

Nasir gently pats Pietros’ shoulder in comfort. It seems ever since they got married, Pietros and Duro are on and off again every other week. They’re always fighting about something, Auctus and Barca staying out of it for the most part. 

“Helios propositioned me.” Pietros confesses softly, turning his face into Nasir’s shoulder. On his other side, Mira and Naevia lean in too. “I drank too much and we were talking, kind of off to the side. He said something flirty and I laughed and then he asked if I wanted to leave.”

“He’s still going after you? It’s been years!” Mira hisses, shaking her head. “I heard he’s getting married to some foreign princess.”

“I think he thinks I’ll eventually leave my marriage. It’s a good way to unite Alptra and Taurunt more permanently.” Pietros waves his hand, dismissive. “Regardless, I told him no, and he was fine with it. Really, he took it well. He’s so handsome and graceful – a very good prince.”

Nasir raises a slow eyebrow at that, leaning back to see Pietros’ face. He’s flushed a little, guilty. Nasir isn’t blind. He knows Helios is attractive. He’s tall and dark skinned with amber eyes and horns curved out of his forehead. Nasir just didn’t know that Pietros thought so. 

“But Tove overheard and thought it was funny.” Pietros groans, shaking his head. “He must have told Duro. Or told him something. Because Duro came out of no where and was yelling and then Tove started laughing. They just kind of dissolved into punching."

"Crixus and Barca had to break it up." Naevia's mouth twists, clearly annoyed by it. "Duro and Tove are just lucky it was late and everyone was still whispering about their kings running off. It could have been worse."

“We all have to be more careful. As much as I hated her, Laeta was an expert at getting people out of scandals.” Mira hums, making a pleasant wave towards a few women who walk by. “We can’t afford one now.”

“Fuck her and her memory.” Nasir snips nastily, remembering very vividly what that woman did to him, and later to Agron. “I don’t care about rumors. Let them think what they want.”

“We just have to be careful.” Mira shakes her head. “That’s all I’m saying. You, and even your Pietros, are always under watch.”

“I know. It’s why it was ridiculous.” Pietros covers his face with his hands, moaning softly.

“It’ll be okay. I’ll throw them both in the dungeon if I have to.”

Brushing his fingers through Pietros' hair, Nasir hugs him briefly, trying to offer at least a little comfort. He wasn’t there to see it, but he can only imagine. 

"It was mortifying. I had to apologize to Helios at least a dozen times." Pietros groans, leaning his head back against the pew. "I couldn't even look at him this morning."

"At Helios?" Nasir glances at his brother and then to the women. "What does he matter? I mean, yeah, he saw the whole thing, but he was also the one to hit on you. He knows you're married. He was there for the wedding."

Turning his face very close to Nasir's, Pietros drops his voice to a whisper, so quiet that the two women have to lean in until they’re nearly resting in Nasir’s lap. 

"I-" Pietros pauses, eyes wide and fearful. "I saw him. A few nights before my wedding."

"What?" Nasir's eyes go huge. He can hear the beginning of the music kick up, a warning that the ceremony is about to begin. “Pietros!”

"I was nervous and he came to visit me. He’s so nice. He really is. I just wanted to be sure." Pietros confesses. "It didn't mean anything. I’m not in love with him."

"You slept with him?" Mira hisses, glancing around as if Helios is suddenly going to appear. “With Prince Helios?”

“I regret it, only because I was engaged and was foolish. But-” Pietros’ face is red when he glances forward. “It was very good.”

“You can’t just say that.” Mira mutters, bouncing Kieran a little in his lap when he begins to fuss. “You’re married! Three times over!”

“What? You think I don’t know that? Would you have me lie about it?” Pietros calmly brushes his hand over his pants. “He’s half bull, half man. You figure it out.”

“Pietros!” The women gasp together, scandalized. 

“Stop,” Nasir giggles, covering his mouth with his hand. “I can’t believe you. This is serious.”

“Well,” Pietros shifts again. “It was a mistake but at least I don’t have to suffer through the memory of shitty sex.”

Shaking his head, Nasir relaxes back into the pew, gently pulling Kieran into his lap. He can’t imagine being with anyone other than Agron, not really. He’s not blind. He notices when men are attractive. He notices a nice pair of eyes or a gentle disposition. Hell, even Nasir chose Titus last night for his attractive face and his wide shoulders. Still, Nasir is pretty sure the only reason he looked twice is because through squinted eyes he could have passed for a vague Agron. 

“Did you tell them?” Nasir asks, rolling his head over to look at his brother. 

“No. And I never will.” Pietros’ mouth twists derisively. “What good would that do? It happened nearly a year ago.”

“I know, but it clearly still bothers you. And Helios seems to be under the impression you want to do it again.” Nasir whispers back, trying to sound comforting even though it’s hard. “Do you want to do it again?”

“No! And stop looking at me like that.” Pietros suddenly hisses, angry nails digging into Nasir’s thigh. “Not everyone is perfect and has the fairytale life. I’m allowed to mess up.”

“I’m not judging you.” Nasir replies smoothly, turning back to face the front. “I just wasn’t expecting it.” 

Before Pietros can reply, the music suddenly increases in volume, the organ singing sweetly towards the rafters. A man in a long, white robe makes his way down the main aisle, a small lamp of oil swinging incense into the air. The priest is followed closely by others, all of them singing in one slow hum. It’s the beginning of the service, the whole congregation rising. 

Pietros makes it through six honorable hymns before he finally relents and reaches for Nasir’s hand, grasping the one not holding Kieran. He squeezes it tightly, pressing them together from shoulder to hip. Nasir, unable to verbally reply, keeps their fingers entwined as the priest finally allows them to sit.

“I’m sorry.” Pietros whispers, his lips nearly brushing Nasir’s ear. “I just-“

“You don’t have to explain. It’s none of my business, Pietros.” Nasir leans in, gently squeezing Pietros’ hand. “I won’t tell them.”

“Not all of us just knew, you know.” Pietros glances down at his wedding ring. “I didn’t know if Duro and Barca and Auctus were formed in the hands of gods for me. I never got that spark. Not like what you said you got.”

“Agron and I are different. You know that.” Nasir feels as if he’s constantly saying that, as if it’s a mantra that is always lingering in the back of every conversation.

“I know.” Pietros confesses, sighing deeply. “I just-“

“You were finally able to make a choice.” Nasir turns towards Pietros, smilingly bitterly. “Finally able to say yes when you wanted it and no when you didn’t? I know that feeling. Just because I chose to be with Agron doesn’t mean you had to choose to be with the first man who let you decide.” 

“I love my husbands.” Pietros says it confidently, without doubt. “I do.”

“Then there is nothing to worry about.” Nasir smiles, raising their joined hands to kiss the back of Pietros’ before turning his attention back to the front. 

Nasir wishes suddenly and very much that his husband was there; that Agron’s large arm was draped over his shoulders, their sons nestled against them. He doesn’t know what to say to Pietros, not really. It’s just not something he was prepared for. Nasir has never thought, never even considered, the possibility of cheating on Agron. Why would he? 

Around them, the ceremony continues. There is no other way to describe it than very long and very monotonous. The priests work there way through a long winding tale of the rise of the Alptra nation. It’s a beautiful story, really, one full of redemption and sacrifice, but the delivery of it is lacking. The priest’s voice drones on and on and on. More than once Nasir has to tap Malik and Sepp on the shoulder to make sure they are paying attention.

It’s hard to listen to a service based on gods he doesn’t even really believe in. Agron and Nasir decided early that they would raise their children with both mythologies, but the Alptraum one is more prominent since they live in this land. More than once Nasir finds himself making comparisons between the two, amazed how they’ve taken the same ideas and twisted them into their own. 

With the sound of a low horn, the congregation rises again. Nasir doesn't have to turn to know why, suddenly the hair on his arms raising as Agron's boots click loudly on the marble floor. He stalks up the aisle, eyes trained front and head held high. There is no question who stands before them, even mortal Agron commands the room simply by being in it. Duro and Spartacus follow behind him, each holding a large bowl. 

The plan is supposed to be for Agron to go and kneel before the waiting priests, to be anointed as alpha and the leader of the hunt for the following night. It’s a great spectacle, an honor that indicates without question what Agron’s title is. He does not make it though, coming to pause at the end of the aisle. Nasir feels his knees go weak when Agron reaches a hand towards him, beckoning. 

Nasir is stuck behind Crixus, Naevia, and Mira in the row, and yet somehow manages to take Agron's hand, pushing Kieran back into Mira’s arms as he is pulled into the main aisle. Agron doesn't say anything for a moment, eyes trailing slowly over Nasir's intricate outfit - from the moon crown to the diamond encrusted edge of his cloak, hand so warm. 

"The moon stood brilliant in the sky for ages before wolves walked the earth.” Agron’s voice seems to echo through the cathedral. “And behold, he stands as magnificent now as she did then.”

“All hail the king’s consort. All hail the king.” Spartacus’ voice booms behind them, the crowd suddenly being forced to repeat the words. 

The court around them stares, shocked by the king’s display. This ritual ceremony is supposed to be about him, to give him honor and praise. It’s an ancient tradition. And yet, Nasir stands there basking in the attention. If it is a political move, a means to show that Nasir holds powerful position, he does not understand why it’s happening now. 

“You are tempting fate, my love.” Nasir hisses through his teeth, allowing Agron to guide him up on his toes to kiss him. “What are you doing?”

Agron had spoke of nothing but discretion and secrecy last night. As they laid together in bed, cooling off and trailing slow fingers over skin, he told Nasir to be careful – to be aware of all that is happening around him. They cannot let their guard down even though they may feel safe. Agron has never been one quick to trust others – but he has had many reasons not to. And now, Agron has basically drawn all of Alptra’s eye to him. 

“Give me our eldest son.” Agron smiles, gently brushing his finger over Nasir’s cheek. 

"Agron, please." Nasir can hear his pulse in his ear. There is a reason why the princes sit close to the wall, surrounded on all sides by heavily armed uncles and aunts. 

“Trust me.” Agron glances behind Nasir, flashing a small grin at his sons.

Stepping back, Nasir motions for Malik, holding his hand out to the little boy. He manages to squeeze past his relatives, brow furrowed in confusion as he finally makes it into the main aisle, reaching for his parents. With one last kiss to Nasir’s cheek, Agron reaches down and takes Malik’s hand, turning back towards the front of the sanctuary. 

Nasir can do nothing but let them go, slipping back into the pew and pulling Sepp against his side. Kieran has settled in Mira's lap again, gumming noncommittally on one of her fingers. Across the aisle, Nasir's gaze briefly catches Roul's. He's glaring with wide eyes, teeth sharp in his mouth. Nasir burns to hiss back him, to send some curling of power across the aisle, but Sepp gives a small whine and he's forced to turn down to his son - pulling him into Nasir's lap. 

Up front, the main priest is saying something, praising the role of alpha and king, his scratchy voice weaving a tale of power and royalty. Agron has bowed his head, grinning at Malik, reassuring and warm as Malik gazes back.

"Who stands before us?" The priest asks, a large flickering candle in his hand.

"Agron, the Beast of Alptra. Moon chosen. Freer of men. Alpha." Duro's voice booms through the hall. "The rightful king." 

"And?" The priest raises a slow eyebrow, the wrinkles on his forehead denting sharply. 

"Malik, the prophesized son. Bespoken savior. Magic's beloved. " Spartacus speaks slowly, calmly. "Wolf son." 

They kneel together, hands clasped as Agron helps steady Malik. The first drop of anointing oil is from the priest's hand, he drips his finger into Duro's bowl, drawing a slow line over Agron's brow. The same is repeated over Malik. Their cloaks are removed next, the same citrus and cedar oil being dripped over their backs, down across smooth skin. Malik doesn't falter once, keeping his hand firmly in Agron's, head down. 

They pray, offerings and pleas given to gods and goddesses. It's an honor to be so chosen, to be given such titles. Agron handles it with grace, listening to the priest's words as he rambles praises and hopes for the future. 

"Behold, King Agron and High Prince Malik." The priest finally finishes, gently touches each of their heads. "Rise in blessings of the moon."

They stand together, turning slowly to look out at the crowd. It's as if Agron has been doubled, Malik looking so much like him with his head held high, the green of his eyes glittering slightly, like a secret. He's grinning, dimples in his cheeks and head tilted back to look at his father - so very pleased to be chosen, to be loved. Agron lets them bask in it, lets the crowd begin to clap and cheer, before he scoops Malik into his arms, holding him tightly. 

"All hail the king!" The court chants together, voices loud and echoing amongst the rafters. "All hail the prince!"

Nasir doesn't realize he's crying until Sepp reaches up, gently brushing a hand over his cheek. He doesn’t even know why, suddenly overwhelmed by how far they’ve come, how much they have to call their own. Five years ago, Nasir stood in this church thinking Agron was never coming back, hiding a pregnancy from everyone, beaten and sore and afraid. Now, he watches his eldest son be anointed as high prince, his other two sons close to him, friends around him. They are safe here. Hugging the little boy close, Nasir gently kisses over his temple, soothing him. 

"Baba? What's wrong?" Sepp's voice warbles slightly, confused. 

"Nothing baby. Baba is just happy." Nasir soothes, bouncing him slightly. "It's okay."

Agron begins to make his way down the aisle, beaming and bright and full of potential with Malik at his hip. He stops again at the end of the row and Nasir moves before he knows what he's doing, retrieving a babbling Kieran from Mira's arms. Agron takes him, lets Nasir hold Sepp as they make their way down the cathedral to the calls of the court. Outside the church the peasants have gathered on either sides of the road, a plethora of flowers being thrown onto the dirt to line their path. It's an overwhelming sight, voices calling praises and cries of excitement. 

Turning to him, Agron grins wide, his voice lost in the sound of the crowd. The words are clear though. 

“I love you.” 

Slipping his hand into Agron’s free one, Nasir takes a deep breath, readying himself for the walk to the celebration feast. It’s a long time coming. 

“I love you too.”

\- - - 

As far as feasts go, this one is fairly tame. It begins early in the evening, the tent walls being rolled back to let in the cool air. The rain has stopped, thankfully, and there is a dim mist rolling in from the south. A large fire takes up the center of the gathering, nobles milling around and talking while servants make their way through the crowd with large trays. The royal table sits just behind, a large clearing allowing the dancers to entertain and move while between the king and the blaze. 

Nasir and Agron have separated over time, drawn away by people wanting their attention. As it stands, Nasir is off to the left side, Kieran planted on hip while he laughs with a group representatives from Taurunt. They are easily taken with Nasir, always drawn to him, offering small flatteries as they question him about the princes. 

Agron is stuck between a group of large men, his arms crossed over his chest, listening to whatever they’re talking about. Malik is with him, leaning heavily on Agron’s leg, trying to pay attention. Whatever they’re discussing seems boring though as the little prince keeps kicking his foot back and forth, staring longingly up at his father. Next to him, Duro holds Sepp on his hip, the two of them sharing one large platter of food. 

Every once in a while, the kings eyes will meet, even through the crowd. It’s not that they have to, but it seems they’re always drawn to one another – have to check that they’re close by. Agron will smirk and Nasir will grin and then they turn back to whomever is prattling in their ear. 

"Summer here is like a dream," One of the Taurunt women, Eoina, laughs. "All it is is parties and dancing and feasts."

"I think it's a little more than that." Pietros sniffs, eying his wine. He's sticking close to Nasir's side all evening, trading with him who is holding the smallest prince. 

"It's very exciting, to say the least. If I could, I would vacation here with you all every summer." Besides him, Helios cuts an impressive figure in the firelight, horns curved up high and long. "I mean, why ever go to Galena?"

"Better company," Nasir casts a long gaze across the gathering, eying the Gräuel where they huddle together. “Better wine.”

"Come now, highness," Helios tries to admonish, smirking. "We would never know what beauty was if we were introduced constantly to its opposite."

"Ugliness doesn't always stand so oblivious and condescending though." Pietros mutters, moodily glancing over as well. "I hate them."

"They hate us more." Nasir hisses, petting his fingers through Kieran's hair. "I heard this morning from Bagoas one of their men cornered him outside of the temple. Demanded to know his birth right."

"He's Alptraum, isn't he?" Eoina asks, leaning in close so as not to be heard. “Not that it matters.”

"Yes, but unfortunately for him, he's attached to me." Nasir glowers, rolling his eyes. "Plus, he's not fair like the rest of the Alptraum royalty."

"He is lucky then." Helio's dark fingers slide inconspicuous down Pietros' arm, gaze warm and slow. 

"Do you really think they will turn violent? There have been whispers." Eiona leans in, frowning deeply. "I heard two men in the hall talking about how Roul has always wanted to be Gerulf's favorite. Even as children, he tried to come and be within Agron's house but was denied."

"I don't know." Nasir shrugs. "I am at a loss. I didn't even know they existed until they showed up."

"I doubt Agron will let it get that far." Pietros has done nothing about Helio gently stroking his arm, fingertips lingering on his hip. 

To his credit, Nasir pretends not to see, instead busies himself with adjusting Kieran on his hip. He's been especially good right now, calmly clinging to a strap on Nasir's back, his eyes tracking over the group in front of him. Kieran, unlike his brothers, has always been a silent observer - as if he's trying to figure out the world around him on his own. Every once in a while, he will make a small noise, turning his face into Nasir's shoulder and resting there. 

"Highness." A voice interrupts just behind Nasir, dark hands sliding around Pietros' middle. Barca's grin is slow, predator as he pulls his husband into the fold of his arms, planting a kiss on his jaw. "I'm sorry, but I must rob you of your right hand."

"Oh? Is that so?" Nasir raises a brow. "Under what circumstances?" 

"It's dire." Barca nods very seriously, dropping a kiss onto Pietros' hair. "You must understand. Prince Duro and Lord Auctus both require us immediately. It seems we are not needed for guard duty this evening."

"Really?" Pietros turns quickly to the other man, expression wide and hopeful.

"Well, who am I to deny a husband's right then?" Nasir waves his hand. "I only ask that you please give Prince Kieran to his father on the way." 

Pietros is already curled into Barca's side, his arms barely being able to span the other man's torso. He has his head tilted back though, gazing lovingly up at him, fingertips stroking over the leather straps of his armor. Behind the pair, Helios has suddenly found something very interesting in the bottom of his wine goblet. 

"I can take him." Naevia has suddenly appeared as well, glancing around the group and then reaching for the babe. "You must be dying to move around the party, highness." 

"I-" Nasir begins, confused. He can see Crixus lingering on the edge of the tent, a sleeping Sepp tucked into one arm, Yasmina in the other. Malik is beside him, hand held tightly in Mira's.

"We are taking the children to bed." Naevia's eyes dart behind Nasir to where there is a loud group laughing, wine sloshing around. Roul and his men are in the center of it, gazes skirting over to them. "In our suite. You can come retrieve them when you're done. Melitta and Oenomaus will be there with them." 

"Are we unsafe?" Nasir asks in Pythonissan, the prickling of magic suddenly racing over his arms, up the back of his neck. 

"No, majesty." Naevia tries for reassuring, clasping Nasir's hand as she takes Kieran from him. "But you must remain. For appearances."

"Go." Nasir has to force the smile onto his face, letting her back away from him. Kieran gives a small whine, confused, but Naevia turns his head into her neck and holds him close. 

"We will be back once they are settled." 

It's a long ways to Melita’s tent from the feast, which means that they're going in a group probably surrounded by another set of guards. Nasir appreciates the care they're taking to first remove the children, to make sure they are safe - just in case. 

"Auctus and Duro send their thanks as well." Barca guides Pietros a step forward, his posture casual even if his free hand rests on his sword. "We are retiring to our rooms."

"They will not leave my side." Naevia reassures in Pythonissan, nodding her head in promise. 

"Please." 

Nasir bites into his bottom lip, has to swallow back the fear that blossoms in the back of his throat. They are splitting up, spreading out to better protect. Nasir can't blame that logic, even if he wants to follow them. His place is here, making small talk and staying close to Agron. He waits until the small group has disappeared from sight before turning back to his Taurunt guests, smiling. 

"Come, Prince Helios." Nasir reaches out his hand, taking the other man's. "You have not danced with me once this evening. I demand you do so now."

The prince can't refuse such a request and bows his head with a mighty laugh, guiding Nasir forward. 

"It is an honor."

The song playing is a softer one, the dancers sliding around the large dance floor in looping circles. They're pressed close, hands clasped before them as they spin, steps careful and slow - arching into a long oval. Helios and Nasir easily fall into it, their height difference allowing the prince to gaze down at Nasir in the fire light. 

"I know what you're going to say." Helios does not waste time, his grin still wide. He is not as blind as Nasir believes him to be. He's felt Nasir's gaze on him all evening, knowing and hot. 

"He is married, Helios." Nasir frowns, earnest. "To three other men. One of whom is the brother to the king."

"Marriages can be broken." Helios shrugs, expertly guiding them through the next step sequence. "He doesn't have to stay with them."

"To what end?" Nasir asks, keeping his voice as low as he can. "What can you possibly give him? He can't bear children. You are the first heir. You know it's a requirement."

Helios shrugs, unabashed as he spins Nasir out and then in, his hand trailing down his arm. When he looks back down, his gaze does not stay on Nasir's face, but instead trails down his body. He's more dressed than he was yesterday, but the white straps of his outfit still peak out skin - torso bare underneath. 

"And you wouldn't help him with that?"

"No." Nasir bites sharply, eyes narrowed. 

"He has already asked this of you?" Helios asks, surprised. 

"Not him." Nasir replies shortly, anger bubbling. "But another who met his end shortly after by my husband's hand." 

"Romantic." Helios teases, laughing shortly. "Perhaps the rumor of Agron's possessive anger is not all myth." 

"Stop it." Nasir steps back from Helios, a shimmer of gold scales drifting over his arms. "Whose court do you think you're in?"

"Apologies. I spoke out of turn." Helios sighs, put upon. "Besides, I don't care if he can't carry sons for me. I can have women do that for us."

"You are young and reckless." Nasir rolls his eyes. "You know nothing of what you speak."

"I know you are going to tell me he loves them. That Duro and Auctus and Barca are the best things that have happened to him." Helios leans down into Nasir's space, dropping his voice. "But then, if he is truly happy, why does he let me touch him? Why has he never turned me away?" 

"He has-" Nasir begins only for Helios to smirk, shaking his head. 

"He found me, highness." Helios murmurs. "He came to my tent before his wedding. I found him naked in my bed, already ready for me."

"You lie." Nasir spits through his teeth. “Remember of whom you fucking speak.”

"Even if it were a lie, and it's not, he still did not say no. He still allows me to visit him, to sit inside his tent when his husbands are away." Helios grins slow, shrugging. "Why does it matter so much to you? You have your own life. Let him have his."

"He is my brother. I want him happy, safe, loved. Not the play thing of a spoiled prince." Nasir growls, feeling his magic burning to get out. 

"Ah, now, highness." Helios leans back, a slow smirk spreading over his face. "You are one to judge."

Nasir can feel flames burning inside his palms, temper bubbling to the surface. He doesn't care that this is the high prince of an ally country. He doesn't. Helios should be punished for what he's saying, for what he's implying. Nasir is on the verge of opening his mouth, scorched and thrumming, when a figure suddenly approaches from the right. 

"Majesty, since you both have stopped, allow me to cut in." 

Turning, Nasir is faced to face with Roul. He never noticed until now that the other man stands nearly as tall as Agron, his face continually contorted into a half shift. There is a dark hair sprouting along his face onto his jaw, nose wrinkled and mouth full of sharp teeth. Brow formed into a sharp peak, Roul's eyes gleam an unnatural yellow - pupils small even in the dim light. 

"We are not-" Helios begins to shake his head, but Nasir snatches his hands from inside the other man's. 

"We are done." 

He knows this a foolish idea. It's dangerous to play with someone who has been rumored to want to kill you. Nasir does not care though at the moment, burning with anger and frustration. He has had Caesar at his neck, has had Asher within in his arms, has felt Gerulf's hands upon him. Nasir is not afraid of another enemy. 

"Come, is it Lord? Duke?" Nasir waves a hand, stepping closer to him. "The next dance is yours."

The music has changed so the dance is faster, a sequence of careful steps as one partner stands in the center while the other spins around them. It also includes both of them joining hands, dancing in lines with the other dancers around them. 

Roul, for all his rugged barbarism, is surprisingly well learned in this dance. He stands still as Nasir spins around him, keeping time with a steady clapping of his hands. It isn't until Nasir is forced to stand in front of him, hands raised on either side and clasped, that he begins to speak. 

"Majesty, your outfit this evening is very different." Roul glances down, watches the fire play silver and white over Nasir's skin. 

"I am a representation of the mother moon." Nasir remembers to smother his words in his accent. "For his king's pleasure. And the peoples'"

"You often bow to the king?" Roul seems genuinely surprised, as if he thought Nasir would resist it. As if Nasir often does things in rebellion of Agron, as if they are enemies.

"He is my majesty and husband." Nasir isn't lying when he says it. "I am at his will."

Roul seems to consider the words as they move through a slow spin. He wasn't expecting that, surprised as Nasir smiles softly. There is something unnatural about him though, about the way he moves, about the glint in his eye. It's all wrong - too animalistic, too dark. Roul expects to see his palms dirtied with it, just from barely touching the small king. 

"I would like to consider us friends, highness." Roul smiles, trying to appear calm. "The type that can be honest with each other." 

"Oh?" Over Roul's shoulder, Nasir catches sight of Agron. He's standing still, eyes unblinking as he watches them. Spartacus is whispering to him at one side, Crixus on the other. Nasir burns to give him some sort of reassurance, but they are unable to speak through their minds. 

"When last I saw King Gerulf, he spoke of finding one of my own people to stand beside Agron, to be his queen." Roul says it wistfully as if it is a warm memory to him. "We had plenty of contenders."

"Agron would not have chosen one." Nasir has to swallow his laugh, thankfully being able to spin away so he can smooth his face once more. It’s not that Agron doesn’t respect and value women. Mira and Naevia hold high ranks and could be considered some of Agron’s best friends. Intimately though, sexually, Agron only has eyes for Nasir.

"It would have been King Gerulf's choosing," Roul explains simply. "Someone of the right, to put it bluntly, breed. A woman that had been brought up knowing the old ways, the ways to pleasure a king and raise sons for him, to be proudly put on display beside him. To serve his pleasures and desires."

"Was it a woman or a horse?" Nasir asks, brows raised. Is this how Isolde was treated? Like a mare to be cropped and trained. Nasir wouldn’t be surprised.

“A woman,” Roul sniffs, angrily. “Of purpose and worth. Knowing of her place.”

“I am aware of my place.” Nasir bows to one side to another partner, looking back at Roul carefully. “It is beside my husband, as his right hand and ally. We hold no power over one another, except for love.”

"You are not what we were expecting when we came to pay tribute to the ancient and honorable line of kings." Roul's hand in Nasir's tightens, tugging him close. "You, who were bought at rate smaller than a slave's. Bought to fill a bed, not the throne. That crown is not meant for your head."

"Gerulf purchased me himself, not Agron." Nasir tilts his head back to spit the words in Roul's face. "His gold given to my father to be Agron's husband."

"You lie." Roul's cheek flinches, teeth gnashed sharply. "Gerulf was loyal to the old ways."

"Check the treasury records." Nasir challenges, his feet coming to stand still, craning his head up to look at the wolf. "I can show you the exact book my worth is written in. Gerulf showed it to me often. One hundred gold pieces and safe passage through the land of Alptra in exchange for my hand to then, Prince Agron’s.."

"You know you are unfit to wear that crown. You are a commoner, a demon in the darkness, enchanter and enslaver of men." Roul's words snap sharply, teeth gnashing together. He has hunched towards the king, looming close. “A poison to the royal line.”

“I was a prince before I came here,” Nasir stands tall, the curls of magic burning inside of him. “An ancient royal bloodline, much older than that of Alptra.”

“Your blood is mud.” Roul wraps hand around Nasir’s wrist, tight and threatening. It is hidden between them, out of sight of the king’s careful gaze. "Just as your _sons_ blood is muddled with filth. They will never take the throne. Bastards of an impure witch."

"You are mistaken." Nasir moves to yank his arm away from the man, feeling the deadly press of claws into his skin. "My sons are royal princes. Half Alptraum, half Pythonissan. Malik will take Agron's place one day."

"How? You could not have bore them from your body." Roul glances down again, lip snarling. There is drool on his fangs, furiously gnashing. "Your magic spins nothing but lies.”

"They grew inside of me," Nasir hisses, feeling his own draw into magic. "I carried them and I called them into this world. Do you think those are common children?"

"Impossible." Roul's fingers are bruising on Nasir's skin. "Do you think I am so removed that I have not heard what you have done? Months without your husband and yet you carry his heir? Caesar's venom inside of you, his blood stained on your mouth, and you bore a child with dark marks. They are no princes. No Alptraum king has ever been born in such degradation. Changelings is what they are."

"You speak boldly." Nasir hisses, yanking his hands out of Roul's. "But you forget who I am. Regardless of what you want to think."

"You are no one." Roul smirks, shaking his head. "And soon will be reminded of such."

Before Nasir can respond, fury whipping through him, fire crackling in his palms, Roul has turned. He strides across the dirt, the other dancers having to skitter out of his way, calling out in anger at the disturbance. It doesn't matter, not really, as at least fifty other Gräuel follow behind him, leering over their shoulders. 

It has been a long time since Nasir has felt this helpless. There is little to nothing he can do with Roul’s threat. It was only heard by him, and though Nasir stands consort and king, to start a war now raises too much risk. The Gräuel are a deadly threat, but they have the power to start a massacre just do their vast size. With the Wolf Moon approaching, there is too much at risk. 

Still, Nasir cannot shake the pressing fear of it all. He has stood here before, being threatened by a looming, dangerous foe. Being surrounded by those who would turn a blind eye because Nasir is other. Because no matter what crown or mantle is bestowed upon Nasir, he will also be that young, scared prince dancing in the firelight.

Nasir doesn't realize he's trembling until Agron's arms encircle him, pulling him back carefully into the folds of his arms. He doesn’t have to give his command, says nothing as the guards intermingled with the party suddenly turn to attention, hands on swords. They stand there until the group has disappeared - phantoms in the mist.

"Nasir." Agron whispers. Beside them, Spartacus and Crixus are lingering, unsure of what command to give. 

"I want his head." Nasir snarls, the fangs in his mouth biting into his bottom lip. "Agron, I want his head."

"Then you shall have it." Agron vows, leaning in to gently kiss the side of Nasir's head. "Soon, my love. But not yet."

Nasir lets Agron sooth him, lets him whisper to him until the magic and the black traces of fury leave his skin. Around them, the party has returned to quiet chatter, glances and stares being thrown their way. The hour is late and the moon is high and Nasir does not think he can stay here another moment. 

"Get me out of here." Nasir whispers suddenly, turning his head into Agron's neck. "I need out of here. Agron, the magic-"

Saying nothing, Agron instantly acts, guiding Nasir to his side, tucked in close. He keeps an arm around his shoulders, pulling Nasir with him as they slip from the confines of the tent. No one says anything in protest, bows and murmurs of goodnight given to them as they pass. It is not the first time the kings have left without notice, allowed to follow their own whims without question. Agron doesn't stop, doesn't acknowledge those around them, just keeps moving until they are far away - lift in a deserted street in the moonlight. 

"Breathe, Nasir. Breathe." Agron's fingers slide over his sweaty skin, soothing words into Nasir's ear. They're alone except for Crixus and Spartacus, who are wise enough to linger back a few feet. “Whatever he said, it is meaningless.”

"I can't-" Nasir chokes, head thrown back. Ripples of black lace over his skin, sharp curling backs that chase each other over Nasir's throat, his arms, his back. He feels half blinded, every shadow a looming mass - golden eyes and a booming voice. The panic crawls in his throat, choking him as he feels his knees go weak. 

"Nasir!" Agron grips his fingers into Nasir's jaw, turns his face up. "He's dead. I killed him myself. Like I will kill anyone else who threatens you."

"I can see his face." Nasir gasps, the slits in his eyes flashing in the light. "In the darkness. His voice. He's never gone."

"I am the wolf in the dark." Agron presses his mouth against Nasir’s, breathing the words even as his fangs bite into Nasir's lip. "I am all that's here."

Eyes closed tight, Nasir digs his fingers into Agron's back and shudders through a breath. He can feel Agron's racing pulse, smell the familiar scent of skin and sweat. Agron's hands are warm and large on Nasir's face, the rush Nasir gets every time Agron touches him more like a balm than a toxin. 

"That's it. Breathe with me." Agron whispers, exhaling once more over Nasir's lips. "With me, Nasir."

The panic attack ebbs away slowly, soothed by Agron's careful hands and his soft tone. He doesn't grab at Nasir, lets the other man collapse on his own. Nasir's ribs ache, his throat raw, knees useless as he slumps into Agron's waiting arms. Away from the crowds, he allows himself this small relief - this small comfort. 

Agron doesn't have to ask, instead he hoists Nasir into his arms, holds him tight to his chest. With a nod at Crixus, he dispatches him to retrieve the princes. Spartacus will stay with Agron until they're at the royal tent, keeping guard. And as Nasir dozes in Agron's arms, tucked with his face in Agron's neck, the high king curses his late father - praying that wherever he is in the afterlife that he is suffering. 

 

\- - - 

There are very few things in Malik's life that he is very certain of. The first is that he will one day be king of Alptra. The second is he is the best in his classes, that he can out fight everyone in his year – even Uncle Spartacus says so. The third is that he is in charge of keeping Sepp and Kieran safe.

The most important thing though that he has never doubted is that his Daddy and Baba are very in love. Malik doesn't really understand what this means- or what loving actually means - not in the way that Baba and Daddy are. He knows he loves them, but something tells him that it's not the same type of love. It’s not also not the same type of love that he feels for Seppy or Uncle Crixus or Apep. 

Malik is old enough now to know there are certain things he's not old enough yet to know. Like tasting the special drink all the adults drink at feasts. Or how to throw a long spear. Or how to run on the Wolf Moon. Or what Baba and Daddy do sometimes when they're supposed to be sleeping. 

Still, if he is certain of anything, Malik is sure that this love thing has to do with what his fathers are doing currently. They're standing on the far edge of the tent, heads bent together and whispering. Every few moments though, Daddy will lean in, kissing Baba slow and gentle - lingering a half breath away before doing it again. 

They've all been dressed for the wolf moon. Agron in his long black cloak, wolf mask pushed up on his head, standing bare and slicked in some type of oil. Nasir is shining in silver and white, painted over his bare back and across his face, pants open and low on his hips. He's the most beautiful Malik has ever seen him, and though he had wanted to hug Nasir when he first saw him like this, Uncle Pietros had gently told him not to smudge the paint. That Baba was doing something special tonight. 

"I am allowed to change it." Agron’s murmured words can be heard as Malik inches closer, his bare feet making no noise on the rugged floor. "I can choose anyone. I'm king."

"It is my right. I am the royal consort." Nasir reassures, brushing his fingertips through Agron's hair. There is a small smear of silver paint on his jaw, the source a smudge on Nasir's neck. "I will be fine. I’m feeling better."

"Naevia already volunteered." Agron tries to reason, his bare chest glinting in the dim light. The oil they've rubbed into him smell strongly of bergamot and citrus. "Or we can skip it this year."

"I am doing this." Nasir states firmly, leaning in to kiss Agron one more time before spotting Malik, turning to him instead. 

"Hey baby. Look at you!" Nasir coos, crouching down. Malik, like Agron, wears a black cloak pulled over his hair. He's been allowed to keep a small subligaria on though, skin slicked down with oil too. There is a small silver wolf mask on his head, fashioned with a small crescent moon on the brow. "Are you excited?"

"I want to run." Malik pouts a little, kicking his barefoot. "I can."

"Remember, you have a very important job. You must stand guard of Baba while we run." Agron grins, leaning in too, gently tapping the wolf charm around Malik's throat - it's red eyes glittering. "I cannot trust anyone like I trust you. It's the perfect job for a high prince."

"It's true." Nasir smiles, kissing Malik's brow. "You can keep me company while your daddy goes and leads our people."

Malik looks from one of his fathers to the other, scowl turning slowly into a grin. They are right, it is an important job - one that only he can do. Malik is certain of it. The moon is the most important thing and he gets to guard him. 

"Okay!"

"Good boy." Agron praises, resting his hand on Malik's head for a moment before pulling away. He tugs Nasir to him by the bare patches on his wrists, leaning in to whisper to him. Malik hears the words but doesn't understand them. 

"I will be able to hear you the moment I shift fully." Agron has his fingers around a curl of Nasir's hair. "You call for me and I'm here."

"I am not afraid. I have done this before." Nasir smiles sweetly, tracing a finger down Agron's chest. "I am your moon."

"You are." Agron nods slowly, unable to look away. 

"Return to me." 

Nasir raises up on his toes, suddenly kissing Agron. Malik doesn't understand why they kiss like this, mouths open and hands raised but unable to touch, too smothered paint and oil. They stop after a moment, seeming to remember themselves as Uncle Spartacus enters. 

"We are ready for you."

With one last lingering look, Nasir and Agron approach Malik, each taking a hand as they turn towards the front of the tent and make their way out the door.

\- - - 

The night is clear and chilled, a slow breeze billowing in from the north. It causes the torches around the clearing to flicker, casting shadows over the ground. A small division of guards have been placed around the space, non-Alptraum but wearing the emblazoned armor of such. They’re mostly ally soldiers sent to offer aid to the king – mercenaries for the cause. 

Nasir follows through the motions of the ceremony, allowing Agron to guide him to the platform, presenting him to Spartacus as tribute. Malik is also presented, allowed to stand beside Nasir as Agron tied him to the pole, kissing his mouth before dropping both of their masks. They only have a little time left, the moon crawling slowly up the sky. 

The people are restless tonight, swaying back and forth with their cloaks billowing, talking quietly amongst themselves. It’s wave after wave of torches, masks upturned and staring at the platform and their kings. Animals in metals of silver and gold, bronze beaten and wood carved. Jewels glittering in the night. A collection of large cats linger to one side, birds of prey behind them, dogs and jackals to one side. All of them gathered to pay tribute and wait for the full moon to give them back their powers.

The Gräuel do not wear masks. Their hairy faces peaking out through the hoods of their cloaks, eyes glimmering. They do not turn into full creatures with the moon’s rise. Instead, they stay the same, becoming more ravenous and violent when surrounded by others, perhaps more fur. 

“Baba?” Malik whispers. He’s leaning into Nasir’s side, anxiously grasping the back of his pants. 

“Yes habibi?” Nasir wishes he could press his hand to Malik’s shoulder, to offer some reassurance. He already knows what he’s going to ask.

“Can I watch Daddy change?” Malik glances up, hopeful even through his mask. “Please. I’m not afraid.”

Pride bubbles in Nasir’s chest, warm and expanding as he turns his head to look at his eldest – the baby Nasir waited so long for, protected as a secret for months. This is Malik’s birthright, his legacy. Agron and Nasir are just laying the path for his success. 

“Of course, baby.” Nasir confirms, grinning behind his mask. 

Nasir still gets a rush when he sees Agron shift, blood pumping hot and fast as Agron’s shoulders snap forward, growling deep within his chest. Nasir’s own magic crackling and expanding inside of him as it once more mixes with Agron’s, choking him as it surges from two strands into one. It blinds him for a moment, replaced instead by a blur of visions behind his eyes. Long, thin fingers playing through a toddler Agron’s hair, Duro nearby on a blanket. A young Agron play fighting with Spartacus and Crixus, covered in dirt. Nasir is there, dancing before the fire mixed hot and powerful. There are newer memories too, Malik’s first transformation, Sepp’s face when he was first cradled in Agron’s arms, Kieran’s first laugh.

With one lone howl, Agron’s powerful paws raise into the air, pounding loudly onto the wooden platform. He’s taller than the other wolves around him, bigger than Duro and Tove, with tawny fur and a snarling muzzle filled with sharp teeth. Just behind Nasir’s thigh, Malik is half shifted, peeking out with pointed ears and glowing eyes. 

Turning to them, Agron stalks across the platform, the wood creaking under his bulk. He bows to Nasir first, pressing his muzzle into Nasir’s waist. With his arms still above his head, Nasir can’t reach out, but he sends out the warmth of his magic, happy to once more be tied to his love. Malik, fearless and bright, leans out from around Nasir to nuzzle his face into Agron’s throat, yipping loudly in excitement. 

It is between one breath and the next Agron leaps, growl reverberating around the large gathering. The crowd parts to let him dash through and then suddenly they’re all off, following with screams and cries of their own. It is not the retreating backs of their people that catch Nasir's eye though, nor is the calls of excitement and vigor. Instead, it is the slow retreat of Roul, his golden eyes gleaming in the light. He waits until he is on the tree line before he bows, a mocking little wave of his hand. 

A strange feeling twists in Nasir's stomach, a coiling fear that makes the nauseas in his throat rising. It's the paranoia, Nasir tries to reason, the anxiety of the hunt and the few passing days. He tries to will it away, instead turning to Pietros. He's been stationed with Nasir, planning on taking Malik back to the royal tent before Agron returns. 

"It is cold tonight." Nasir begins, conversationally, shivering against his bonds. 

"It is." Pietros kneels down, pulling Malik into his side. "Are you cold, little pup?"

"No. And don't distract me. I am watching for danger." Malik turns his head, green eyes peaking out behind his mask. 

"You are a very brave warrior." Pietros agrees, petting a hand down Malik's back. "Your fathers are very proud."

"I am going to be the best warrior there ever was. Uncle Spartacus said so." Malik preens. "I'm already first in my class in the low sword and spear. Aunt Mira says she'll start training me with the bow soon too."

Using his bicep, Nasir drags his face along to push his mask back, glancing out into the surrounding woods. Without the Alptraum there to hold torches, the clearing has fallen into bright moonlight. It plays tricks on the eyes, making things brighter but also the shadows loom high and dark. 

"Sepp is good. He'll never be as good at me. Might make a good captain." Malik is still prattling on, leaning heavily into Pietros' side. "Kieran can be my right hand."

"You seem to have it all figured out, little wolf." Pietros grins, still petting a soothing hand down his spine. "Who is going to be your consort then?"

"Baba." Malik answers matter of fact, as if it's an obvious choice. 

"Your Baba? But that's your daddy's consort." Pietros laughs, tilting his head back. Just above his shoulder, Helios stands with a long spear, his horns, dark like his skin, protruding over the top of his hood.

"So? He can give him to me. Daddy can't have him forever." Malik sighs dramatically. "He has to share."

Nasir shifts from one foot to the other, back weary from keeping his hands up. He's thankful he's not pregnant this time, able to keep his arms comfortable without the weight of his stomach dragging him forward. He's half listening to his son, smiling at the innocent way he thinks the world works, when movement catches his eye. 

It's just the wind, Nasir assumes, watching a tree shudder in the cold. There are many beasts out there, of all sizes, hunting and careening through the trees. But then, a howl goes up into the crisp air. It's not the type of howl that makes Nasir go weak, the reverberations like a beacon calling all of Nasir's magic into focus. No, this howl is clipped, a sharp bark followed by a slow growl. 

"Maybe Yasmina then, if I can't have Baba." Malik reasons, sighing deeply. "But only because she is second best in my class. Her daddy already has her training in daggers, and Daddy said I couldn't until I'm seven!"

"You must give yourself time to grow." Pietros is laughing, holding Malik tight to him. “You are still small.”

“I am a big boy. Baba says so.” Malik growls indignant, stomping his barefoot.

Nasir narrows his eye against the brightness of the torches nearby, trying to spot what is moving closer in the trees. Whatever it the creature may be, it’s moving slow and careful, only the shaking of the lower limbs giving it away. Yet, as soon as Nasir pin points where it is, another starts up a few feet away, the under brush snapping and rustling. 

A half dozen more spread out among the tree line, drawing closer and closer. They are careful about their approach, stalking and slow as twigs snap under their slow advance. Nasir can barely breathe, standing still and listening. Slowly, from the dark, a pair of gleaming golden eyes come into focus. They’re too tall to be a wolf’s, too high from the ground, and yet too focused to be anything else. 

“Pietros,” Nasir whispers, barely moving his lips. 

“And you shall be a very good king.” Pietros taps Malik’s nose affectionately. “One of the best.”

“No. I am the best.” Malik shakes his head. “The only best.”

“Pietros!” Nasir hisses just as another pair of eyes comes into focus, reaching over with his foot to lightly kick his brother’s side. 

“What?” Pietros looks up and then freezes, shocked to see Nasir’s huge, frightened eyes. 

“Take Malik and go to my tent.” Nasir hisses through his teeth. He shifts slightly then, fingertips begin to spark. “Now.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Pietros glances forward as if he’d be able to see what has caused Nasir such panic. 

In the dim light, Nasir stares as Roul slowly breaks through the trees, his face contorted in a snarl. His hands are hooked in claws, shirtless with hair now down his back. Nasir has been faced with larger foes, has seen a dragon with his own eyes fly low over the deserts of Muka, has seen wolves and bears and orcs hunting in the swamp lands of Eloinis. Still, fear burns in his chest, a rattling that causes his legs to tremble. 

“Pietros! Now!” Nasir shouts, hands engulfing in flames. 

It all happens very slow and very fast. 

Helios darts forward, his large arms encircling around Pietros. It pulls Malik against Pietros’ chest with a loud, desperate cry. He back peddles off the platform, landing harshly on the dirt ground, and then rolling. Malik is screaming, high pitched and frantic, Pietros’ own shout lost as Helios gains his footing. He doesn’t let them look back, instead turns and runs away from the clearing.

Nasir has just enough time to yank his arms down, the flames circling around him, hot and furious. Then Roul is upon him, shoulder digging into Nasir’s chest as he runs forward, slamming Nasir off his feet. They fly over the edge of the platform, missing the six steps and over into the darkness. Nasir hits the ground back first, the air being forced from his lungs. Pain burns through his chest, head knocking hard into the packed earth. 

\- - - 

Vision red, Agron pounds along the forest floor, hunting through the dark underbrush and along the bases of the tall oaks. He wants to find something worthy of Nasir, to give him tribute and honor not only for standing as the moon, but for standing as consort, for father of his children, for the foundation when Agron feels unsteady. There is no one more worthy. Agron will always find ways to offer sacrifice and glory to his husband – even if it takes all night. 

He has just crashed into a stream, body hot and steaming in the cold air, when a sound has his halting, head tilted up. Duro is nearby, pawing at the dirt, Spartacus a little further over, both of them hunting something large and darting. It’s not unlike them to hunt together, to search through the night to find a prize. Still, the desperate noise has all of them waiting, breath panting out in a thick fog.

_Baba! Baba! Baba!_

Agron sniffs the air, trying to block out the others and pinpoint it. He can always find Malik, knows the scent that is both part of him and part different. It's the panic that smells sour, a rancid follow up of fear. Then, hot and coiling, Agron homes in on Nasir's blood - a lot of it. 

Duro barks sharp, whipping his head around as he hears Malik's screams. He finds Agron in the darkness, the gleam of gold in his eyes reflecting white in the moonlight. He does not need to hear his husband to know something is wrong, he can smell it on the air, can feel it in the way the trees shake around them.

He doesn't need to call out to know something is wrong. It coils through him, the static electricity making his hair stand on end. The hunt is forgotten as Agron turns, paws pounding into the earth, howling up a warning. He hears Duro and Spartacus follow him, Crixus and Naevia joining just behind.

\- - - 

Roul’s attack is uncoordinated, sloppy with little finesse. Though he has Nasir pinned beneath him, he also landed roughly on his own knees, groaning as he tries to move. Nasir uses it to his advantage, pinpoints the weakness in his form. Wheezing miserably, he digs his heels down and flips them, slamming his weight into Roul. He scrambles to his feet, glancing up to see the guards are trying to keep the others back, clashing in a bang of swords and snarling teeth. 

A group of four break from their enemies, following Roul up and over the platform, descending onto Nasir. The flames come naturally through him, burning and swift over his arms and hands. He pushes them towards the closest two, wild and frantic, the flames flickering from yellow to blue.

Roul has regained his footing, snarling sharply as he surges forward on the attack, arms up and claws out. Nasir curses his lack of weapons, barely dressed with jewels and paint for coverage. Desperately, he rips the heavy, metal mask from atop his head, tossing it roughly into Roul’s face as the other two men attack from behind. 

Black vines ripple along Nasir’s arm, crawling over his throat, as it lashes out. This power, this ancient magic is not something Nasir has been able to control yet. It only seems to happen when he’s desperate or scared. It slices through the first man, an attack of quick cuts that rip through his skin down to bone. The other manages to dodge, slamming his fist roughly into Nasir’s jaw, before he’s being surrounded. 

Blood explodes in Nasir’s mouth, trailing down from his lips as he tries to back-peddle. Around him, he can see the guards are mostly gaining ground. The attacks, though ruthless, aren’t backed with much training or skill. It is desperate and clear that they waited to attack because they thought they had the upper hand without the Alptraum being there. 

With a clawed grip, Roul is there to catch Nasir, one hand going to his throat. He grips hard, tugging and using his height to try and drag Nasir across the dirt. It is to little effect though as dark coils wrap around Roul in return, tightening and twisting. They’re stuck together for a moment, suspended with desperate hands, when suddenly Nasir is breaking away, ducking out from Roul’s hold. 

The other man has suddenly attacked again, his swinging arms desperate and fast, snarling. There is a deep cut on his chest, oozing blood down the front of him. Nasir ducks when he can, using what Naevia and Mira have taught him about being low and fast to his advantage. He kicks the man’s feet out from under him, fire crackling across his chest as Nasir snarls. 

Nasir can feel blood dripping down his face as Roul grabs him again, slamming him into the ground from behind. For lacking in skill, he makes up in stamina as Roul digs his arm in harshly to Nasir’s back, flipping him over. Pain blossoms in Nasir’s sides, hearing the audible pop of his ribs cracking as he slams into a small cluster of jagged rock. It robs him of air again, heaving and gasping, fighting to get his footing on the now slick mud. 

“And now you die,” Roul snarls in Nasir’s face, once more slamming him into the earth. He’s using his weight and Nasir’s stunned position to his advantage, pushing him deep into the now mud. Hooking his hand over Nasir’s broken ribs, he tears his claws down and around, ripping sharply over Nasir’s side,

Nasir screams, the pain agonizing and sharp as his skin comes away in ribbons. He can’t call to his magic now, the static heat that usually enflames him, too breathless and weak. There is but a thin light now, a flicker of a candle in the surrounding darkness. He does not want to die like this, alone on his back in a land that reeks of Gerulf and darkness. He wants to see his sons grow, to see them mature and become strong and good men. He wants to grow old with Agron, to watch the grey ribbon through his beard, to watch him hold his grandchildren. They have fought so long, for so many years, Nasir will not lose it this way. Will not let himself be robbed of his beautiful future. 

“No!” Nasir fights against the pain, fights against the agony, the last dying breath inside of him. His magic surges forward, one last hot burning fury, as it slams into Roul’s chest. 

It propels the man backwards, flames engulfing him, a snarling fire that blooms in his chest and then up and over. Roul’s screams are cut short as through the blaze, a pair of jaw snap open wide and then down, Agron’s teeth ripping into his throat, snapping his head clear off his body. He lands among the carnage, Roul’s head rolling to rest at his feet. 

_Nasir?_ Agron gasps in terror, stepping forward. 

_Help me_ Nasir groans, rolling onto his side. He doesn’t have to move far, Agron is already there, nosing at Nasir, using his muzzle to help prop him up. Gripping his fur, Nasir pulls himself up, body trembling. He’s losing a lot of blood, stained with it everywhere.

_Let me-_ Agron starts, burning to shift and take Nasir into his arms. 

_Not yet_ Nasir gasps, leaning heavily into Agron’s side as he stands. Blood is pouring from his side, bright red and slick, a mess as he leans heavily into Agron. 

“Let them see me. Let them see their kings.”

Surrounding the bloodshed, the gaunt faces of the returned Alptraum line the clearing. They’ve returned from the hunt, called back by Agron’s roar and the smell of blood in their city. Their own carnage lines their face, blood soaked into hair and skin, staring in horror at the bodies littered around Agron and Nasir. 

The assassination attempt was a failure, ruined by the king’s magic and fire. Slowly, as if in awe, the Alptraum people drop to their knee, one hand slamming into their shoulder. It creates a slow beat, a steady heart line through out the city. These is the kings they have followed, these are the men that they trust, that they on the throne. Regardless of rumor, of malice, there is no question who stands alphas now.

It can only last so long. Nasir’s legs give out, body weary with blood lost and exhaustion. Agron is there then, sweaty and bare, pulling Nasir into his waiting arms. He screams for his grandmother, for Melitta, for Pietros. Nasir is fading and they must save the king. 

“It is good to have you back, my love.” Nasir whispers, face ashen and turned into Agron’s shoulder. 

“Stay with me, Nasir.” Agron growls into Nasir’s hair.

\- - - 

The tall grass of the field blows slowly in the warm breeze, reflecting gold and green with small purple flowers dotted between. The air is filled with warmth, sunlight streaming down onto the large villa, reflecting off it’s sparkling white walls. There is a large garden before it, bustling with large hedges, statues of the Alptraum gods, and stone benches. Around the side of the building though, tucked between two large willows and facing a long field, a small herb garden lays tucked along the edge. 

“Seppy, you must learn to block!” Malik’s voice rings out, clear and chiding. “All warriors must learn how to defend first, then attack.”

“I’m trying! I am!” Sepp whines, once more taking position, raising his small, wooden sword. 

“Again!”

Malik gives the command and then clash, skittering over the soft clover and grass. Nasir watches them from the corner of his eye, lovingly tending to the herbs and plants before him. The foxglove has come in early, their bell shaped flowers hanging heavy as thick bees bounce around them. Beside him, Kieran stands balanced against the edge of a planter, idly running his fingers over the soft bristles on the cattail. 

They had only been here a short time, enough for the summer sun to hint the leaves into shades of gold and red. Winter will soon be falling all over Alptra, but for now, it lingers like a threat on the breeze, a few stray clouds far in the north. Nasir allows himself to bask in the heat, to dig his hands into the dirt and feel the earth call out to him. 

He has just pulled a new batch of scallions from the dirt, shaking them off, when he feels it. It’s like a string in his chest has suddenly gone taught, a thread once unraveled restitched. Nasir’s entire body breaks out in goosebumps, shivering in the warm air. 

“Nasir,” Pietros, who had been laid on his back, balancing on Barca’s chest and chatting to Auctus, raises his head. He’s holding a finger out, pointing across the large field. 

Nasir doesn’t need to turn to know though, can feel it in everything, just knows. It’s been nearly six months, six months of an empty bed, six months of healing and recovery, six months of waiting for this. For this blissful moment of sun on his skin and the warmth slowly filling him, magic crackling. 

“Daddy! Daddy!”

The wooden swords clatter to the ground, Malik and Sepp shouting in excitement. Carefully, Nasir peels the gloves from his hand, standing slowly. He brushes a hand over Kieran’s hair, hoisting the toddler on his hip when he turns, his face pulled back into a slow, happy grin. 

Agron has Sepp on one side and Malik on the other, coming across the field. Nasir lets the whole scene sink in, basking in the sunlight glinting on Agron’s armor, his face, his strong arms, his chest. It fills him up, overflowing with love and adoration and the joy of having all of this. 

Finally, Agron reaches him, gently leaning down to kiss Kieran’s upturned face. He then passes the baby to his oldest brother, leveling Nasir with a careful stare. It’s like a slow inhale, a kettle just cusping on the boil. Nasir lets his gaze trail over Agron’s face, down across his eyelashes, over his dimples and soft smile. 

“How, after all this time, do you still manage to be so beautiful?” Agron whispers, brushing his fingers over Nasir’s jaw. 

“I could ask you the same.” Nasir grips the front of Agron’s armor, puling him close. “Is it over? Are we done?”

“The city has been washed of them.” Agron leans down, whispering to him, his hand settling on the scar along Nasir’s side. “The Gräul have been banished, any of them that are left.”

“And the people?” Nasir can’t stop stroking Agron’s chest, glad to finally have him here, solid and warm after he sent Nasir away for safety, sent their sons away to protect them.

“They love you. You are their king.” Agron kisses Nasir’s forehead, holding him close. “There is no reason for us to return there, Nasir. We can come here in the summer. Anything you want. I know it is dark and painful for you there. I don’t want to cause you anymore pain.”

Reaching up, Nasir gently brushes his fingers through Agron’s beard, cupping his jaw. When he guides him down, it’s into a soft kiss, slow and careful, budding open as they grow reacquainted with one another. 

There is no dark shadow here. No looming mass of panic and terror. Only the bright sunshine and the sprawling villa. 

“I want to stay with you and heal with you and raise our babies.” Nasir whispers, his forehead gently resting on Agron’s. “And when the night is dark and I am afraid, I want to know that you are here and they are not.”

“I am here.” Agron breathes the words like a prayer, holding Nasir in his arms. “I am here and I am never leaving again. I am never leaving my sons again.”

“Then I have all I need.” Nasir leans in for another kiss, soft and gentle, enough love to fill them both up and over flow. “The rest we will figure out.”

They turn. Agron takes Kieran into his arms and has Sepp clinging to his hip. Malik grips Nasir’s hand, holding tight and safe, and the royal family walks back towards the villa and the rest of their family.


End file.
